But mom, he doesn’t want me
to rub his feet, he wants to eat me
alive—everyone says so—
she looked in at his window last
year and the floor was covered with tiny skulls
and he ran out to catch her and almost got her
hem but she slipped out the fence—
and the trees
will be better this season and dad will need
my help since they’ll be dripping
with dates and besides how shall I be
initiated at Ishtar’s alter if I’m locked in
some accountant’s cellar fattening
up for next year’s New Year’s?
Some of Jared Pearce’s poems have recently been or will soon be shared in J Journal, Linden Avenue, DIAGRAM, Nixes Mate, M– USE. He lives in Iowa.
Photo by: Ana Prundaru