Body Rot

here, our pohádka—
the kind smelling like
hot october and

plant matter yellowing
with sunburn’s
shock

I flinch at you,
my polecat tchor-konstábl

but despite myself
my carrion craves yours

strung from knotted navel to
pale breasts a slither in the cavity

something tight wavers
through my body
something like the
rancid of raw pumpkin

____

Emily Murman is a poet, educator, and MFA student from the northwest suburbs of Chicago. She has been published in Milk + Beans, Okay Donkey, Cease Cows, Peculiars Magazine, The Green Light, Déraciné, and more and can be found on Twitter @emilymurman.