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Introducing our New Managing Editor:
Nicole Connolly
Two Poems:
Sighting, Whiting Ranch
We went on the trail closed for rain,
but the wet woods are no place
for two sisters alone. The mountain lion
dropped—we heard its four broad paws
thud the ground in the way it wanted
to snap our necks. Because backwards became
dangerous, we continued ahead, but were
already on the back of the lion, weaving
through trees now its fur. We were
in his mouth; our boots fell into the warm wet
between rock taste buds. We climbed the hill
to climb out. As we rose above the canopy,
our hands and feet broadened, teeth grew
past our lips, and body hair pushed all our clothes
down to the dirt. By the time we reached
the fence that trapped us in here,
we were what needed to be kept out
of those backyards. Bark, you
German Shepherd. Child, slide inside
your glass door. The sign at the trail head
said Mountain Lion Sighting. We learn
that a woman, instead of becoming
what she eats, should become what tries
to eat her. Yes, we slunk through the gutters
until we found our way out. We rubbed ourselves
against concrete until we were furless,
but we’d tasted ourselves as prey in our own snouts,
and learned to snarl at what tries to take us.
like a turtle in the middle
of the street, retreating into the shell it knows
cannot withstand the coming tires.