The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Becoming Persephone by Mary Ann Honaker

---

Feral

It was a time of small beauties:
cigarette ashes flicked from car

windows aglow in staggered rows
like released Japanese lanterns,

bonfires in fields, in pits
dug in the coarse sand by the river,

a lovely thin-waisted boy
pouring beer over scraggly locks,

tossing coal black hair back: an arc
of sun-sparked jewels,

bright beads spilling down
bared chest, a crackling laugh

the final slay. To this day
I’m swifted back to those lean,

hard-drinking years by the scent
of cigarettes overlaying the spicy musk

of still-crisp, newfallen leaves,
the odor like a forgotten but favorite

metallic guitar riff—I thumb through
the cassette inserts of my mind,

find my mouth forming a feral grin,
my face forgetting twenty years

in twenty seconds. In photos,
I’m all whites of eyes, a timid doe

inclined to flight or a menaced
coyote inclined to bite, seconds

from a toothy snap. We yapped
through the night like dogs, whooped

at the moon encased in a fuzzy aura
of drunken sway. We fucked without shame,

pissed without asking pardon. We woke
to gnawing mornings, groped for soda,

stomachs unsettled and foreheads
filled with lint and cotton ticking.

I wrote of lust and headlights reflected
by roadside puddles, of love

and games of pool. Somehow we knew
it would get harder from here on out,

and took our revenge greedily & soon,
breaking into houses, stealing what

we couldn’t buy, cheating each other,
bleeding each other, perfecting pristine lies.

We drank everything we could stomach.
We carried small knives and brass knuckles,

slung back our shoulders, wore heavy boots.
We readied ourselves for the coming fight.

---