1 poem

Erin Kae

Dwelling

,
 

The ruin of my body is where memories go
every time someone dies when I’m not looking.
I found my grandfather open for the first time
post-mortem. The Embalmer: a fox
searching for a new burrow. The first one
he made in me. After, he came
to the burial riding in my body
the hollow of my throat
where I had grown soft like a peach.

::

 
What was his real name—the Embalmer?
I held his bushy tail, let him lead me
to the burrow he had made
in my grandfather too, nestled
between the southern edge of his ribs
and his bellybutton. This is the place
I close my eyes
try to kill him. The red
was everywhere. I found fur  

;

under my nails—inside my pillowcase
—clogged down the shower drain. How
did I wash the blood out from
my own ears, my tongue, my teeth?
What does he call himself—the Embalmer
that animal I hated to name? I feel
his claw marks each time I speak
pressing into the place
I don’t think he ever left.

"Dwelling" was a finalist for the 2018 Up North Poetry Prize