Skin Walker

by Amanda Reck

I know exactly what you'll do
when you find the scar
that sits above my breast.
The left. Whisper, "baby,
baby." My skin there is so thin,
like wax on paper held up
to light. You'll trace the ragged, red line
as if it were a map —
useless, when you can't see
in the dark. Catch the moon,
if you can. I'll snatch it back,
clad in this troll's skin
and eat it like a hot, white heart.

I can smell what you fear:
the snap of jaws, a trail
of blood on white, the search
for movement on a frozen hillside,
your reflection in pupils
as sharp and cold as obsidian.
When you kiss me, it's hard
not to break the skin
where your blood pulses hot,
as if you'd been running,
your footprints pressed
into the snow, your breath coming
fast, your mouth open wide.

Bend back, pant, shed
your slick, warm skin. I'll
steal your scent, press
its tang into my pores. Follow
my scar: its line will lead you
to my teeth and claws, gaping jaws,
wide enough for one to sweep the sea,
one to touch the sky, to eat the earth,
swallow it whole, like a river stone.
I have devoured a god, and still,
it's not enough. Smear your face
with honey, I want to whisper,
catch my tongue with your teeth.
But you're not the one I want
to trap me. I'd kiss the sugar from your cheeks,
then lick your moon-white bones clean.

Amanda Reck is a recent graduate of Johns Hopkins University, where she studied poetry, Russian, and history of art. Now living in NY, NY, and expanding her work list to include associate editor, sales rep, PR rep, and project director for a non-profit, she's also tired of people saying, "Poetry? I didn't realize people still did that." You can find her work in Falling Star Magazine, Locust, and Measure Press.

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