Mad Woman

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.


Maria McLeod writes poetry, fiction, monologues, and plays—three of which have been performed onstage. Honors include three Pushcart Prize nominations and the Indiana Review Poetry Prize. She’s been published in Puerto Del Sol, Painted Bride Quarterly, Pearl, Crab Orchard Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Critical Quarterly, and others. Originally from the Detroit area, she resides in Bellingham, Washington, where she is an associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University.

Image Credit: id-iom

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