Conjured, we come while you’re sleeping. All kinds: cats, rats, and foxes but most of all dogs. Most of all big black dogs auguring calamity. We cradle your fingers between our teeth not to draw blood or to frighten but to warn you toward calm. We get our snouts right up against you. We nuzzle into your sex, your tender belly. We are sniffing out the raw and stinking things, delicious things. We stick to you like magnets until you conjure men, too, who tear us away, handle us roughly though you called and we came. We don’t fight them. We watch you slip behind a door, slam it shut. We hear you moaning low on the other side. Through the floor we can feel you tremble. Do not fear what we’re about. Do not mistrust us. We are only here to collect you. Gather you into us. We invite you to our dens. There is warmth here, blood pumping under soft pelts.
By Sutton Strother
- Sutton Strother is a writer and composition instructor living in New York. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Longleaf Review, Ellipsis Zine, Atticus Review, Jellyfish Review, CHEAP POP and elsewhere. You can find Sutton on Twitter: @suttonstrother