by Brock Marie Moore
the wooden yawn begs crumbs; i pinch crust from the stiff kalach, press floor-strewn salt to fingerpads to savor her meal paint chips trace the open jaws, hint at blue eyes (those gouges glowing green as witchfire when she is fed) i cannot picture, still, how mama cut the leshy's throat to carve malyshka from its flesh my hands are shaking, sooty, raw (i do not feel beautiful) "dolly tell me what to do" rats watch us from the grain bin, winter-lean "i fear her iron teeth"
Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with her partner, her dog, and a monster in the closet. When forced away from her comic books and video games, she can be found guiding library patrons into dark corridors, scribbling down ideas, and reorganizing her toy collection so the dolls don't stare at her.
Any mask that chose Brock would be dark and sober. It would only cover part of her face, leaving flinching skin stricken and exposed.
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