Pamela R. Anderson
Coyotes returned to the field behind our house. I know this from the now-absent
rabbits occasional animal shrieks in the night scattered tufts
of fur near the lake. The snapping turtle is on the hunt again, too evidenced
by diminishing numbers of Mallard ducklings paddling behind their clan’s lone
remaining matriarch. Strange: unlike everything else, our predatory instincts seem
nonexistent these days past actions notwithstanding. Discarded spouses abandoned
lovers careless flouting of conventions and expectations good names dishonored
in countless ways. We never speak of past deeds nor are we anxious
to repeat them. You lean into me bend your head toward mine and I wonder:
Have we lost our nerve? Grown too old to relish the slow dismantling
of skin from bone soul from body? Or have we become two carrion-eating
creatures sideline skulkers content to chew on bloodied scraps?
Pam (the original) Anderson has never owned a red bathing suit and is unlikely to invest in adjustments that create any alternate physical facts related to her personal appearance. Her work has appeared in Whurk, JennyMag, Mason’s Road, and elsewhere. When she is not writing poems about the Holocaust, she practices and writes about yoga. Find Pam on Facebook at Pamela R. Anderson—Poet.