Skin Walker - Amanda Reck

I know exactly what you’ll do

when you find the scar

that sits above my breast. 

The left. Whisper, “baby, 

baby.” My skin there is so thin, 

like wax on paper held up

to light. You’ll trace the ragged, red line

as if it were a map—

useless, when you can’t see

in the dark. Catch the moon, 

if you can. I’ll snatch it back, 

clad in this troll’s skin

and eat it like a hot, white heart. 

I can smell what you fear: 

the snap of jaws, a trail

of blood on white, the search

for movement on a frozen hillside,  

your reflection in pupils

as sharp and cold as obsidian. 

When you kiss me, it’s hard

not to break the skin

where your blood pulses hot, 

as if you’d been running, 

your footprints pressed 

into the snow, your breath coming

fast, your mouth open wide. 

Bend back, pant, shed 

your slick, warm skin. I’ll

steal your scent, press

its tang into my pores. Follow

my scar: its line will lead you

to my teeth and claws, gaping jaws,

wide enough for one to sweep the sea,

one to touch the sky, to eat the earth, 

swallow it whole, like a river stone. 

I have devoured a god, and still, 

it’s not enough. Smear your face

with honey, I want to whisper, 

catch my tongue with your teeth. 

But I know you’re not the one I want

to trap me. I’d kiss the sugar from your cheeks, 

then lick your moon-white bones clean. 

Originally published by Goblin Fruit Magazine, spring 2012

Amanda Reck is a writer living in New York. Her work has previously appeared in Measure Press, Goblin Fruit, Locust, and Falling Star Magazine, among others.