Streaks of jet, sable, ebony
tattoo my thighs, thread

my skin, overlap folds
of flesh, leave a print

the shape a unicorn.
Its horn is woven red

and white bone, its cloven
hooves like the devil’s.

It sleeps in my lap. We wait
for a wild human hand

to kill, the thrill of blood
to pass between us.

But the wind whips our flanks,
wraps us in rain that washes

us clean, running rust-black
runnels down our backs.

Abegail Morley

If you have any comments on this poem,  Abegail Morley would be pleased to hear from you.