SPELL TO LEAVE BEHIND A LIFE
Nothing was basic in that place, the fence
triple concertina, the dirt I carved
into trenches, burrowed with my bare arms,
each mark I made a stay against the fire,
bombardment in the dark.
What I return
to is home. What I call Spartan is so
because I had to prepare, make ready
for war, fitted with nothing but a bed,
a sheath for my sword.
What I once called peace
dissolved easy, fat on my tongue, dusted
fine powder over the sleep where my teeth
would bury themselves in each other. Home
became a story best told at dusk, thread
sharpened with spit, needle meant to suture
but first to pierce.
I left as carrion
leaves the animal who once believed flesh
necessary for life. I sliced my pelt,
slit it wide enough for home to slip through
that opening made by my hand, my knife.
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Beautiful Outlaw by Jennifer Perrine - November 5, 2026
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