by Audra Puchalski
As I voyage across the continent, I write the wild beasts
who will devour me when I arrive in Rome.
Dear beasts who are to devour me, I write, I cannot wait
for you to devour me. Too long I’ve been half-devoured
by desire—you wild beasts must finish me, disheveled
plate of leftovers, before I go cold and crust over.
Unfurl my twisted organs, swallow my broken heart
and let it reunite through dissolution inside you, shred
the porous membrane between me and erasure, me
and forever, me and freedom. May nothing else
entice me. May my darkest parts be brought to light.
I crave his blood—I mean my blood—I mean your claws.
If they hold me back from you, my bones will ache
with wanting to be ground between your teeth. Partake
of me catholically. Let me thrill when you pounce on me,
not your prey but your beneficiary. Not my killers but
my saviors. This world has always spat me out—
I know you won’t. This world has refused me—now I
cast it aside, leaping joyfully into your open jaws
like a lover reunited with his beloved. I stalk
toward you, escorted by soldiers and angels,
feeling you draw near, ready for my marriage vows.
Audra Puchalski lives in Oakland, California. Her work has also been published in Bat City Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, and Superstition Review, among others. She possesses a Twitter handle, @audrapuchalski.