wicked alice| fall 2009

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Nicelle Davis



After a Fight


The cat curled at my center catches fire—

light swells in the kitten’s red-belly. Helium

breath. Rising. My throat dilates to ten. Chard

creature crowns—purring. Slab of meat falls


from my mouth. Lands on its feet. Blisters

dragging towards you. Trail of fluid—cord

strung across the kitchen floor. the hell is that

you ask, jumping atop the counter. Hope. I say,


but Rope is what you hear. Bow of guts playing—

nails down a long chalk board. I think this Half-

Gone likes you, I say. Make it stop, you say. I take

it outside to roll in the dirt. I leave open tuna


cans at the door. Funnel of desert ground rise

where the pet paws the scent of sun cook fish.

From the window we watch dust-devils lift 

tumbleweeds; offering of matted sticks to air.