by Jessica Tyner
Jessica Tyner is originally from Oregon, USA, a member of
the Cherokee Nation, and has been a writer and editor for ten years.Currently,
she is a copy writer for Word Jones, a travel writer with Mucha Costa Rica, a
writer for TripFab, a copy editor at the London-based Flaneur Arts Journal, and
a contributing editor at New York’s Thalo Magazine. She has recently published
short fiction in India’s Out of Print Magazine, and poetry in Slow Trains
Literary Journal, Straylight Magazine, Solo Press, and Glint Literary Journal. She lives in San José, Costa Rica.
In the
dripping cold of an Oregon January,
miasma of wet dog clung to us like a
discarded lover. You, sick
with a cough and a heavy head tucked
in the pages of a book. I drove
like hell down the coastal
back roads. No one holds tigers
and lions in the winter
but us.
The wanton mud swallowed our shoes,
sucked our feet in searching gulps
while the animals watched.
You held her,
Bristled paws like a kiwano,
as I cradled the bottle of milk
into her frantic mouth knowing you’ll never
think me as magnificent as you
do right now.
I gifted you a tiger cub, her claws etching
delicate scars into your forearms,
while the rain scoured us to the bone.
miasma of wet dog clung to us like a
discarded lover. You, sick
with a cough and a heavy head tucked
in the pages of a book. I drove
like hell down the coastal
back roads. No one holds tigers
and lions in the winter
but us.
The wanton mud swallowed our shoes,
sucked our feet in searching gulps
while the animals watched.
You held her,
Bristled paws like a kiwano,
as I cradled the bottle of milk
into her frantic mouth knowing you’ll never
think me as magnificent as you
do right now.
I gifted you a tiger cub, her claws etching
delicate scars into your forearms,
while the rain scoured us to the bone.
