by Samantha English ’19
The moonlit Hunt lurks outside my window
on Cazenove first: ten girls of silver
slippery skin. Diana, with her bow,
leads, wolflike, fairy dust in her fur, her
whispering eyes call, “come, we are waiting.”
Their hands grasp at the glass, fingers linger
adjacent to the tree that is growing
from inside me, yeasty roots that hinder
any chance of slumber—between my legs
a forest fire engulfs a cherry
blossom twig that in flames never lacks.
I warn them:
I am no Virgin Mary.
Bathing in acid, not mother’s milk, I toil.
I am unmarked but somehow still spoiled.