I entered the home, Immediately flogged in the face By the smell Of healthy relationship. Sunday morning breakfast together; One body cooks and the other body, The symbio-dy, does The dishes because the first body was So sweet to labor the labors of Sustenance transformation: A magical science, to turn What was once raw and Growing in the ground or grazing, Mooing, pooing upon an open field Happily in the light of day upon A Sunday several months ago, Unaware of its breakfast nook fate, Predestined for plastic packaging At conception. This was the smell that hit me As I dragged my shoeless Hooves across the threshold, Shoulders festooned with a beaded, Thrift-store Christmas sweater from the Previous night’s festivities. Puffy eyed and spotty faced, Words from fighting stuck In my teeth like gristle from the beef Of two sensibly-sized Denver Omelets, the ostentatious egg pies Forcing themselves Into my tired, tired nostrils. I transform. Fear me, fear me! I am a mermaid, blood thirsty And my hair is made of fire, my Rib cage wide, hands clawed and Arteries, Veins, Capillaries bursting, Arms outstretched like a Tim Burton Butterfly, Needle-sharp teeth for the Ripping, the tearing, Never cooking I eat the raw, I eat the living Farm to mouth I use my talons to puncture tiny Lungs, one, two, Hehe! This is all a game to me! I am Slaughterhouse Sunday! I have come to package your genitals And place them in a freezer! Bow to me, Your Slaughterhouse, I am the mermaid of Neither sea nor land nor Industry. Only in myth do I live. And I am coming for you. And you’d better fucking hide.
I can see myself, Trapped In a sticky den of babies A youngful squirmling on one teat And you on the other— Sucking the life from me. Pretty soon, the whole neighborhood will get involved And after a few meetings they’ll decide I’m under contract to distribute city-wide, or Until the Governor “says so” So I spend my days and days alone, Unshowered, Piled Blobishly on a lawn chair. My animal-balloon breasts Reeled out to God-knows-where— To the place desperadoes squint towards When they ride off into that candy-ass sunset. I’d like to grab God by the dick and say, “Is this what it means to be a woman?”
Sally Harvey Anderson, also known as Sally Catfire, currently resides in Nashville, TN. A graduate student at Belmont Univ., she is in the process of earning an MA in English Lit. with a track in Creative Writing. Her main literary interest is the fetishism of death and sexual violence towards women. Every morning, Sally wakes up human and dreads putting on pants; except on the mornings she wakes up in the afternoon. However, she always wakes up human. Every time. Her first poetry collection, Nine Lives of Catfire, was published by Whatever, Mom Publications and Anklebiters Publishing. Her first novel, To the Bone, is still being formed within her literary womb. It will be birthed when the time is right.