A Magazine of Many Arts

Rebecca Bennet

“When did you stop looking at the moonlight?”
He asks from behind the cash register of a family store 
remembering a shadow of us 
in formation on the field 
echoing the same howls of our fathers 

He’s looking at a body no longer lithe and hairless
sees I’ve copied my father’s yawns instead
and knows that howling is meant for 
girls with bleached incisors
with makeup as sharp as a claw

I don’t say there are other blood calls now
new places that make my heart thrum
people who make my insides itch
I don’t tell him that
he’s still howling but hasn’t shifted