Thirteen Hip cocked, licking the knee-buckling sweetness from a bush’s worth of honeysuckle, splayed blossoms lusting for birds, pale wings of my shoulder blades slickening in the sun. There was sugar, and I knew where to look, popping the fluted stopper from the base of each heady bloom (oh, God) the slow unstitching of the flower – pulled thread, pearl of nectar, that rush. *** Red I knew he was the wolf, of course – meek as a retriever on his bony back, frilled nightcap taut between the peaks of his ears, drooling at the yeasty smell of my basket. Those are some big teeth. Thing is,I’d walked into trouble’s mouth before. The woods were cruel - nursed by thicket and thorn, my hood apple-bright in the browning light, the huntsman’s scarlet quarry. They’ll tell you it was he who cut us free – me in my sodden cape, unspeakable, granny naked and blood-streaked as the day she was born. The truth is, I unzipped that beast, dragged us both out of his bulging gut. I learned early – once you leave the path, you’re only as sharp as your blade. *** Anonymous The house is loud tonight, the wind in its throat. I lie in bed and think of other beds, in other rooms chaste eyelet of my childhood duvet, second-hand mattress with the dip shaped like a stranger. In the dark, my body could be anyone’s. Nest of dry cuts in the bend of my arm, sealing themselves like hushed mouths. It's not a secret, the way a body can build a prison around a person. The dead know, un-becoming in their boxes, the opposite of seeds. We bloom in quick pink knots, milkweed blown to fairy floss, soft catch for cupped hands. My body could be anyone’s, in the dark.
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Steph Sundermann-Zinger is a student in the Creative Writing and Publishing Arts MFA program at the University of Baltimore. When she’s not working or studying, she spends her time in joyful, messy coexistence with her wife, two children, and numerous pets. Her work has appeared in Post and Isacoustic.
