Sex and Murder Magazine

By Michelle Tooker

Another calico lays, skin unzipped, by the mouth of the shed.

My stomach turns to velvet.
Did I hear coyotes last night—
that chaotic chorus they perform for the moon?
No, I heard Denny.

He slipped in before dawn, in the way
a falcon enters a blue jay’s nest,
towing that summer stench
from nature’s catacombs—
neglected grass and loose soil.
It flooded the house like moonlight.

Inside, I listen for his snores
then open the windows
hoping June will chase away bone dust.