Olivia Do
Rehearsing for Carnage
Mackenzie Berry
in the distance i hear a chorus
of wolves singing.
they stand upright in a circle,
pawing each other’s gloved hand.
it’s not a strangle like how a fox wails,
no. it’s a song that starts in the toes
and collects an orchestra of organs
as it moves up through the chest, strumming.
by tradition, the wolves dip their snouts in the bucket
of paint at the center, shaking their heads to scatter.
the goal is to pant without tasting. they call this discipline.
whoever loses dies by formaldehyde.
this is the best way to learn fast.
before they feast they sacrifice one of the pack—
something angrier is hungry.
whoever is angrier wins, that’s the pact.
they all sing well to ward off music-less things.
i know because if i get too close
i fall right asleep.
i stay far away,
rolling in the grass and picking at my heart lock.
Mackenzie Berry is a poet and editor from Louisville, Kentucky. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, her poetry has been published in Poetry Ireland Review, Blood Orange Review, Hobart, and Up the Staircase Quarterly, among others. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing – Poetry from Cornell University. Her debut poetry collection, Slack Tongue City, renames her hometown, a place shrouded in stigmas of illiteracy, ignorance, and cultural backwardness, following a restless speaker who desires to both relish in and escape girlhood.