in the crawlspace, the kindling
of hair. Something getting out
of hand. Then, riots in corners.
Water-scrawled walls. She’s aware
of the changes, the ringing
round her eyes, fur around her mouth.
Unbecoming a foxing. A murk
at the center. Something
is eating at her. Located in the velvet.
Dressed out like an animal,
she thistles & fickles. She fawns
in a murmur of milk. Grows feral.
Febrile. Soft as the inside of teeth.
- Claire Hero