A journal of narrative writing.
The Seams

"You're a she," the boy coos, and he's shirtless, and you're racked In the stall; all your hooves, splayed, buckle and he's petting you hard And it's forcing you back into the men and the mud and the white corn husks. They use the Baster in you. This Not meant for you now: He had put a horse sterilizer in her drink, along with the Rohypnol, so he wouldn't get her pregnant. And so it's dangerous to lie down anymore. She'd deliberate over it, before. She liked Joseph, of course, or John. For a girl, Undecided. But from your swelling thoughts, Thumps. They were wrong. Something grows. Something From the hiss of a whisper gets strung up in the beams: The stitches had to be removed and resewn; They were deforming her. From the stall, you see the first clutch of corn sprouting Nude in the field. They are like fingers stark White screaming up. Can you imagine what it's like down there? All that surgery? 'Hag's screaming mouth? This corn claws its way out of soundless. Dirt Opens everywhere. "You're a she," the surrogate repeats, Reminds. All this quiet is stretching your seams. They Were all wrong: Along the edge— at Field's edge— Along the grass —there— without serrated End, Specula pry into sky.