BY MARIA MCLEOD
She walks through the city with her left eye
tripled in size, and her occipital lobe buzzing.
She can see inside every
body. She sees inside the cops, their eyes
so like her father’s, a wet brown that bleeds
into the iris.
The woods are full
of search dogs. A woman’s voice
tells her to outrun them.
In the rain, in the dark, she is pure
muscle, protected by an unknown
Goddess. She makes the cops disappear
when she shuts her eyes and sees
that her hands
have grown claws, that hate
has a smell to it.