WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)
 

Rachel Rinehart

Murderess, Ohio

The morning after you leave I abort
on the milk house floor.

What God has yoked together, woman unknits.

Knowing this, I light a small red lamp in the barnyard.
When men begin to come, I feed them.

Though my pussy is rough as a calf’s tongue,
they leave mementos: sometimes, a prickly pear
or vial of camphor.

Glut and slake, the night caterwauls.
Blood thickens like creek mud.

Blood mosses the stone floor.
Paunches tumesce, burst.

My garden honeycombs with graves.

I sell sweet corn fatted on corpulent men
to their corpulent widows.

Pot-bellied effigies ghost my windowsills.