by Kay E. Bancroft
This sterling dagger is somehow magnetic; serving no purpose yet
perpetually pulling toward her center of gravity. Slivered
silver begging to nudge flesh but she refuses, hilt in hands of boys
seeking answers in brunette women they meet, her mother
the first—they enter them. Before each return, she gathers a new arsenal —
mechanisms of torture: stoicism of nightgown, surprise of breasts,
razor of ‘90s bangs, recoil of doe eyes, bite of a freckle,
venom of fist. Each return, she steps
up to the rubber face of her opponent and drinks him in — inhale
pheromones of inevitable demise, bloodsmear on her hand,
lips in her mouth, puckered backward, sweat roving brow, drizzle through
chasms of black polyester shreds, she sees them now.
When the deputy asks if she has a gun, before the question escapes his breath
he knows the answer —
Kay E. Bancroft (they/them) is a queer non-binary poet, performer, editor, and educator from Cincinnati, OH. They hold a BA from the University of Cincinnati and are currently an MFA Candidate at Randolph College. You can find their writing in Hooligan Magazine’s “Spilled Ink,” Cotton Xenomorph, Longleaf Review, The Rumpus, Beyond Queer Words, and more. Explore their work and learn more at kayebancroftpoet.com