BY MARIA MCLEOD
Read by the author
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