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dawn bellies
they were never polite waiting
clubbing at the door with impatient forehooves
scarring its soft wood with crescent moons
now nosing the bucket with so much strength it
swings nearly off its hook
i reach over the wall and pull the bucket inside with me
and their ears prick to the soft slush-sound
of crushed oats
pouring
my hand creates the whirlpool
blending dark alfalfa lumps and pale broken grains in
the loose spiral of breakfast
within the golem
she formed herself out of clay
sculpted her shell over soft skin and
bones that felt too brittle
wishing she could work iron
to forge her mind's-eye armor, riveted faceless
and considering
in bleaker sicker moments
what it might be like to sew a cloak of flesh
with only her eyes -blue flickers-
her own
she is not imprisoned but hermetic
behind the slick kiln-fired mask
Brock Marie Moore lives in South Texas with her husband, their dog, and too many cats.
Her poems have recently appeared in Soul Fountain and are upcoming in Straylight Literary Arts Magazine,
Willard & Maple, Open Minds Quarterly, and The Stray Branch. When not agonizing over word choices, she
can often be found reading old horror comics and making futile attempts to learn Finnish.
Email: Brock Marie Moore
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