A far cry from full tide. A far cry from curtain & cord. A fist full of quick tinsel. A fuck ton of lost fur. He said ‘are you wearing spurs?’ I said ‘no, but I’ve a belt made of blacksmiths.’ Yes, all the blacksmiths I have blown. All the blacksmiths I have heated up/hammered/burst/beaten into gold. They are a hoard of a thousand horses, mounting fire in the dust. They flagellate their bellies to burlap, they scrape their fat faces to fringe. I mean to say I pricked them with a nasty nettle, or, I packed in their pistols with clay. Either way, they are made to push up my marina body. Either way, I am full of mad boats. They are walked on by the far cries of the drowning in the harbor towns. They are burnt by the search lights in the bay. There is a prize in my navel for the one who swallows the largest electric eel. There is a button. A kettle. A basket of bruised fruit. There is a locket with a picture of a peasant penetrating a lighthouse, his hind haunch to the sea, in the shadow of a fish-filled wave.
Dylan Krieger is a river nymph of a thousand nightmares in south Louisiana. She lives with a catfish and her demons and sunlights as a trade mag editor. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in So and So, Deluge, Juked, Art Nouveau, tenderloin, Smoking Glue Gun, and Small Po[r]tions. She is afraid of you.