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{purpose} sarah louise pieplow She does not pull hard enough. The vehement pacifist, lackluster as he ended up, put more pressure to the task, sharper grasp on the hair, bent the neck to more impossible angle, ecstatic agony of disbelief, impossibility, it’s just that he was noncommittal, distracted, disinterested, and disinterested, he released the bow early. The huntress, now—now I see— the huntress plies. She begins gently, heats the body to malleability, presses me against the wall in the stairwell with a railing in the small of my back and trains me there for two hours, until I can hold the pose all by myself, you’re a good girl. No joists or splints or posts. Not a cat’s back. A sapling’s, still in the ground. A yew, rooted, forced impossibly to arc toward the maker’s breasts, not Artemis, but close to. The spoon bends, the silver stem of its bones god’s wax—o gods. Remade. Creatures of the wild chew, chew my skin. The spine was made for this. |
