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The Hawk
Anna Joy Springer

Forgive me. The contours made me shiver. Forgive me for the hands that made my body weep oilslicks against the off-white seats of my car. But was it my fault or his, I want to know. His name was Gene. So tell me.

The car was a field. In the field was either a rape, or an animal's cry. Earlier in the day I'd wanted Gene so bad, I couldn't help it. He did construction. He had a smarmy accent. He annoyed me in a shiny café then followed me upstairs to my place. On the roof I shook my ass for him. He didn't seem to want me. This was before he got me in the car, the field.

Then, because Gene didn't want me, I shook my ass at a passing hawk with long feathers; she hooked me through the soft part of my waist, curling her nails around my ribs. I also wanted this bird sexually. She was hunting and found me, heavy. Her chicks must have been waiting for her to come home. They'd be beeping like morning traffic in an enormous nest on a cliffside so far away no human had ever breathed there. Her wings pumped past tons of air, lifting and pushing down. Each time the wings bent, my pelvic bone smashed against her throat. I was suddenly coming on this bird, and to her I was only just food.

She wasn't a hawk, but a building with wings that made me freak against her feathers, because nature is everything. This is the impossible animal story that could unhinge me from architecture of power. To become food, alone, and jizzing hard because of this fierce amorality.

My head hung over backward, loosening my jaw, losing my words, spittle dropping and evaporating for miles before it hit the ground.

This is how I want my lover inside me, turning to mist in my bones so I can never steal her soul and replace mine. This is my pact against suicide.

Because, sexlessness makes people lost so bad they're like little rivers without any ferns defining their edges. And a fern, remember, is a fist uncurling slowly in the sun. And these sexless people say when no hand is building them, they can't feel their edges. And everyone's noises get in.

One time I thought I had it figured out. I was fucking this boy, a different one from Gene, another jerk I found on the street. This one was a compulsive liar so I knew I could trust anything he said. Who wants fake honesty, a dusty silk rose in your own hair? Who wants her own selfish self? I didn't want my half-hearted self.

I was on the mattress on the dirt floor of the carriage house where I lived. I watched the liar fall on me like a ship riding a monster storm and I turned my head, confused, then I threw up this long gash of shadow, wet like lava, burning my fuck to stone. And that was how I stopped fucking guys.

Liars come hard little seeds inside you, planting multiple souls that are too true to grow. I realized, then, that all men are either compulsive liars or do not want you to fuck them. I had a clear moment of history. My liar was pleased in his post-cumming sleep. I arched my neck and puked again.

This is also the reason why I am a bestialist. Animals like to play at murder.

This brutality that is our community, that, I can understand. Only in times of destruction do animals search for peace. And this is why we have relationships. Tom and Jerry really love each other.

I was trying so hard to make sense of my anatomy why my body was a car which was really a field where a rape took place.

The catch was that in order to look into my mind, I had to use my mind. I had nothing else except my cunt, so, after the rape, a baby was born. It wasn't a real one, it was a small figurine, but still I would not see it harmed. The baby born in the car became a full-grown spotted cow with a beautiful body. She let me sniff her hooves. I gave her little kisses up each of her four stiff legs. I moved across her inner thighs and toward her breast. She nodded her head and exhaled hard. The breath came out her nostrils, made little putty-colored whirls in the chill country air. Her eyes rolled back. I suckled the hairy udder, drawing milk-fat into my throat like sperm. I watched the fleas circle her nipples and I pulled at the hairs with my tongue. I pushed at the tuft, tugged it with my front teeth. In a thin cotton nightgown, I kneeled beneath the beautiful cow, whose eyelashes were as long as my toes. I rocked back and forth on my heel in the mist of the field.

I believe in romance. The many kinds of love. The way my child could be my lover and no one would have to weep.




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