A lady never wears panty hose with runners.
our stockings classify
us: nonladies.
we slip our feet past the holes
zipperflesh runners
lately, we snag
our fingers too
on the way up
our voices clacking blue
beads in a door frame
cool and firm
a black dress, lined
with seams of gray
fur, gobs of rich smoke
howling
our only sign of domestication:
full steaming cheesecloth
hung above the sink
twisted tight
slowly turning loose
a tongue letting go
we’re marching naked
we’re linking elbows
softer than raw meat
drip drip dripping with hunger pains
Sarah Hulyk Maxwell
Sarah Hulyk Maxwell lives in Pittsburgh with her two cats and husband. She works at a law firm where her MFA from Louisiana State University is practically worthless, but she’s pretty good-natured about it. Her most recent work can be found in Salamander and Up the Staircase Quarterly and is forthcoming in NANO Fiction and Red Paint Hill.