I.
Wanted:
the dead image of her human face
—
a sheep butchered on the dewy grass the back right leg torn clean off, jagged muscles —
Wanted:
primitive barbarian
the dead imagine her human face contained Government: get yr bounty here!!
*bell rings*
*tinkle tinkle tinkle* get yr bounty here!!
bounty!cash 4 corpse!
cash 4 corpse!
*tinkle tinkle tinkle*
( $ x 2184 )
—
she gnaws on the body of a hen forces down feathers cotton prickly II. the dull ache of death she is cold and naked she watches a knot she is not breathing at all
III. cold of despair / circling / clawed need to break the barrier but knowing way cried / and clawed / crying {silently} {can make no sound} and then she rose again pins of death please she could not feel anything but the primal and so she lays down and closes her eyes IV. fixed with the hens —
at around noon on tuesday, the sixth of may, there was a commotion from the hen house which I took to mean only one thing: a tiger had attacked. I had had it in my mind for some time that I would retaliate against them, for this was not the first time that the hen house had been disturbed and more than one of my fowl had been seized. swiftly I grabbed my rifle poised by the back door and with haste made my way to the commotion and seeing the stripes fired in succession again and again and through shaking adrenaline hit the tiger in the shoulder. the creature coughed and writhed on the ground, attempting to make an escape but the dogs cornered it. my shot had been a good one and the creature could not run at all, and I removed the dogs and stood over it as it continued to cough a wet hacking noise as the blood oozed from the wound I watched the gurgle of blood from the bullet hole and the incessant snarl of the creature’s jowls as it pawed at the ground with its back feet. I tied a rope to its stiff tail and dragged it away from the hen house, and observed the strength leave as it struggled to lay as if it could—and would—stand and take leave into the bush. gradually its head and neck slumped closer to the ground after 20 minutes the coughing subsided and the creature lay still I had triumphed. its body measured five feet six inches in length and fetched £5. Pat O’Halloran came to document my kill. I tied a bit of twine around the tiger’s throat and hoisted it up to the fence outside the hen house, posing with the winning rifle and my best dog, who continued to growl lowly and eye the tiger with the whites of his eyes throughout the duration of the photograph. the creature had stiffened with its eyes pulled practically closed in cowardice and mouth curled back in snarl in death. I am told my corpse was taken by the Hobart Museum and toured across Australia. — the moon rose the moon rose the moon rose the moon rose Brekken Carns is a poet raised by the desert. She currently lives in Pennsylvania with her beloved little old dog. Her work deals in hybridity & theatricality, and she holds an MFA in creative writing from Chatham University. Image: ripleys.com Check out HFR’s book catalog, publicity list, submission manager, and buy merch from our Spring store. Follow us on Instagram and YouTube. Disclosure: HFR is an affiliate of Bookshop.org and we will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. Sales from Bookshop.org help support independent bookstores and small presses.
tongue dangling below its pale soft nose
newborn-pink eyes frozen wild in terror
(terror such a wild thing)
as if in formalin
steaming and gone ripped from socket a deep gash
at the chest wool a rainbow of blood
unidentified organs strewn about / nibbled on
punctures valley deep through the coat
a parting of tissue and jolt of white bone
her wide set eyes eyebrows raised they were invisible
as if in surprise mouth slightly parted, teeth
*a fairy bell*
for hours drool foaming can’t get the ligaments
to tear can’t get a good mouthful can’t
use hands and why is it so hard to exist!!
and forces them back up eating is terrible
is
low in her belly
she sways strung
up by her feet this
angle puts pressure
on her spine
she watches
through milky eyes
the wooden floor
spin
and scared
she cannot see herself
to know
but she
feels the nakedness
and cannot
move
on the wood floor
as it dances
and
far away remembers
the way she was taught to breathe
measured
in two three four
five hold two three four out
two three four five in two
three four and she
notices
through the dull ache
of her back
and her legs
and arms and the pressure
mounting in her head
that she is not breathing
tirelessly at the wooden door a primal
deeply that she is lacking in some inexplicable
abandoned herself toes stiff
in the unusually cold midnight frost
clawing incessant now and the smear of red
on the wooden hatch proved the breaking
of nails the quick exposing gushing
need of abandonment circling in the dark
moonless enclosure tired in a way she had
never been tired in a collective
and she let the frost accumulate on the tips
of her ears and along her spine and dirt empty cage
the stink of desperation
starvation steeping
calculated risk is calculated
but abhorrent loneliness must
be factored in bullet hole
must be factored in the stench
of the man’s eyes on my wound
can’t death get a little privacy can’t
death come without a rifle to the face
but this is the way of men—I
should know the reek of cameras
in my face as I wilted queasy
itchy and scared shitless of the unknown
the dogs refused to come near the house
the dogs refused to step within any distance to the house
all the dogs huddled away from the house in slight shiver
and the dogs warily uncertain came around with hackles and
took shelter for the night
Heavy Feather Review 