Skinned

This night I entered was warm

fir bristled and the moon whined on

played poker with the stars and won every game

narrowing down the night

till only specks of distant fires fought on.

This silence, an opportune

slumber party for sisters bleeding

the darkness a type of confidential gauze

covering the sharing of duck down dilemmas.

I was once debraided

now my knotted hair runs into my eyes

frames furnace-coloured skin.

Depraved night I walk through

you smell like fox skins drying

on live wires and

drunk rabbits rabbiting.

Beyond the water tank chicken wire

shakes

harmonizes with the buzz of some

indiscriminate

deafening

bug.

There is a coat on the line

lined with sheepskin

and the night is gripping it

and I’m staring at it

while waiting on the porch for my dog

to figure out how levered door handles work

so, I can come inside and exit this night.

This night is reactive, mediocrely performing

an act it should have perfected:

be scary and exposing, unknown and frightening

Tonight, it is nothing more

than a shadow of day. 

There's a click.

Dogs done it.

Georgia Wearing