Poetry Issue 16

Issue #16 : January-June 2012





      Output

      The Black Marauder
      by Belle Cabal

      I have nine lives, I die
      every night to prove it--
      clawed out of my own skin
      I search for bodies, newly inhabited,
      smelling of a mother’s lips, baptized
      into fear by my hiss-fluid and concise
      inking their foreheads: mine.
      The melanistic memory of my paws congeal
      As my body returns itself to day.