by Avra Margariti
Up to the slaughterhouse they take us
Strung out and dissection ready
Our young guts put on display
What omens will we reveal?
What glistening girl-meat prophecies?
Down by the ocean we wash
Our pelts clean, relishing the sting
Of salt as the blood slithers away
By the pinkish wavelet.
Freedom can be overwhelming to the captured
But we’ve always run with the wolves.
Moon Mother, are we to blame for the inquisitors’ curiosity?
Are we to blame for our hunger?
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.
