Fox doesn’t like underwear, freebleeds
wherever she can. There’s a sensation
of accomplishment when her saturated
curls stink of metal, dyed as in cadmium
red acrylic, pleasure in the yolklike drag
of clots: proof she’s made it through heat again,
sans consequences. Her womb’s too acrid
to house life, or so she hopes. Anyway
she rarely allows ejaculation,
dislikes the copulatory lock
tying her to a tod for long stretches.
Better to hunker and stride in solitude,
sticky between the thighs,
streaked with war paint.
Born and raised in Santa Cruz, California, Maya Lowy received her MFA in poetry at the University of New Orleans in 2016 and currently lives in Gloucestershire, UK, with her husband and dog. Her work can be found in Bacopa Literary Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Infection House, and other publications.