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A parent could tell a child she was praying,
her back legs broken, facing the trees
along the freeway, sitting up like a dog.
I had to swerve not to hit her. I have a friend
who writes of desire. Of the bodies flesh
and bone. Sex without love,
I’ve figured out, but not her hunting.
How she can kill with no reason,
with a fridge full of radishes and cheese,
brackens and mushrooms all around her.
Rachel Mehl has published poems in Alaska Quarterly Review, Portland Review, Pank, and Willow Springs, among other journals. She has an MFA in poetry from the University of Oregon and lives in Bellingham, WA.