tetanus, heartburn.

the fox that knocks on my front door
scatters crumbs like specks of blood
and scrubs his hands in clean water

afterwards, he drinks
to beseech this nightly glut

his fur the flaking rust of rails
out front, of iron bolts
that fail to hold; feet masked
by cigarette ash

a swollen,
simpering pulse
that matches my own

and eyes in jaundice–
as in the tar
what sleeves his teeth

tonight, he speaks through smoke
spit rolling off blackened tongues
when i reach out to place my thumb
between those heavy, valleyed ribs

he bites
and won’t let go
chews, swallows
me whole
and makes me one
of his own

***

Teagan Nelson (they/them) writes about strained relationships, sexual exploration and exploitation, the fear of being vulnerable, the difficulty of forgiving, and how to love someone entirely different from yourself. They have been previously published in Gypsophila and River Whale Review.