you would I say take

many needless risks

if you ever said anything.
just this week,
my apartment caught fire
three times before I learned not to
set the candles on the carpet.
I hung the burned black moon portrait of a woman engorged with earnest alacrity above the owl
candle holder and littered the altar with yellow paper daisies that danced towards the flames as I began
my bold request
for everything.
“the honey trap”

I am a slow violence blooming in silence.

With a natural lethargy, she put her makeup on slowly elongating the whole process by several minutes. She wasn’t used to wearing it. Moving her neck like a snake upward from left to right, like she was wrapping it around a trunk or leg, she admired the stretch first, then the movement itself; hypnotic and quiet and binding. She stopped applying the powder to stare. Motionless, she admired herself head on. The blush she chose was dark; a shimmering burgundy that ran across her face and cheekbones in the shape of a bruise. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear examining the soft waves falling over her shoulders first as they moved, and then again as they settled. She wanted to see what she looked like as she approached; in stillness and in motion.

“That took too much time,” she said out loud.

Moving her head back and forth in a slow no gesture to see what she looked like disagreeing, she could feel and see the skin of her lips cracking. She eyed the chapstick on the shelf.  She wet her lips with her tongue. We must move on. There was nothing she did for anyone without motive and no one was around to touch them yet. Setting the bamboo brush on the sink, she ignored her dry mouth and her thirst, and picked up the mascara. Carefully, she applied the wand to the eyelashes of her left lid and then immediately stopped to examine herself again. Unbundled and free, her thoughts had been leaping ahead of her. It was distracting. They were being seized by something else; something distant, either imaginary or future she could never tell, but something tugging at her sleeve. Look behind you. She reached for the twisted, plastic straw from the sink’s ledge and began twirling it in her fingers on instinct.  Letting herself be overtaken by the fake memory; the fake way he held her, the fake way he smiled, the fake way it felt, she felt the rush in her chest.

“Stop it,” she barked at herself.

Staring at the mirror once more, she held her own gaze in trance.

“My name is Catarina Kacurek,” she practiced again.

She said it a couple more times until she was satisfied with the way it felt rolling off her tongue. Naturally. Nodding, she put the straw back on the ledge and began to apply the mascara to the right lid’s eyelashes. It’s always like this. She couldn’t see the clock in the bedroom and was thankful. I’m late, she knew. Taking her time anyway, she could still feel the electric bubble running up her spine to announce its arrival, announce its bones were growing over her bones into a grove of wands. I have things to do. She set the mascara neatly back in her makeup bag and pulled out the eyeliner. Dragging the skinny black pencil across the top of her left lid first, she felt a breeze, a draft from a hidden place to the left of her. What the fuck is this all for?

As she fawned herself, praising the way her eyes grew from small and doting to big and black and full of infirmity, she heard a car backfire somewhere in the distance. She placed the pencil on the sink and waited. Goosebumps trickled up both arms. In her spine, her bone grove of smoke and scream and sudden life, she felt it.

“My name is Catarina Kacurek. May I come in?” she practiced again, feeling the backfire of other every other thing.

You couldn’t hear them move over the forest floor.  The snow was fresh and soft like powder. Each step left an imprint but no resounding echo. You could only hear their breathing. You could not hear their steps.

Compared to the surrounding stark silence, their breath was bleating. Each huff was pained and loud. The two women had ceased speaking. All reserves were focused on completing the hike and returning home. The snow was at a halt. It was a windless day and they were making use of the eye of the storm. Within the eye, everything was hiding.  Every once in a while a tree shook when a bird perched and a big clump fell and startled them but hardly any birds circled. Hardly anything moved at all. A crow called out to them hours ago.
“It must be noon,” Catarina said when she heard it.

Behind her, her friend said nothing but she heard her sniffle and knew she was wiping the snot from the nose on the sleeve of her coat. Her friend said nothing but Catarina knew she was resentful. Catarina had promised her peace. I have given you a gift, she kept to herself. They were trapped in the infinite stillness of the woods and each other’s brutal wordlessness surrounded by barren trees and an imposing gray sky. Once blue, now darkening. The woods were once dull, inviting and now growing toothed and sharpening. It was the beginning of January, seventeen degrees and Catarina felt it.

Their breathing was labored. Their cheeks were bright pink and dotted with tiny drops of ice. Their skin was pallid, blue, endurance waning and their breath came out in synchronized huffs one after the other. In front of them lay endless groves of brown trunks dotted with sparse patches of evergreens in the horizon; a brightening to the dense forest and an indicator of distance. Green meant car. Green meant escape. Green meant salvation but they still had an interminable white crystal blanket to cross. All conversation had ceased between the two friends. You could only hear breathing. You could not hear their steps.

Catarina guessed it was about four pm. They had gotten lost, separated from the trail and if they were not out when the sun finally went down, there was no way they were going to survive. They had no food or water. They had no phones. They had only a light layer of fleece underneath their clothing. They were both catching cold which would breed pneumonia. There was no shelter nearby and the two women were growing angry and confused. Nightfall would complicate their emotions which would compromise their sense of direction further. She could see it in the distance: the veiled sun, the yellow halo obscured by boundless gray. It barely shone through the clouds. They were heavy and pregnant with blizzard. It was an unforgiving winter. It had been and remained unforgiving now. The sunset they faced would turn to black without portrait. We will survive, she had lied.  She knew her friend would die. She knew that soon she would hear the twig snap and that she would run. She didn’t know what her friend do but she did know she would hear her scream. She would dart across the forest as fast as she could while her friend was ripped to pieces. She would sprint. She would sprint the whole way without looking back or without time to reflect on her reflex. She would have no time to wonder what blood attracts or how many of them would come to see.

She had decided to wear a blindfold and forget the whole thing. It was agony to know and it didn’t seem fair. None of this was fair. But she did get to see the wolf. It was not a promise but a possibility, and she was grateful in that moment. He was gray and white with yellow eyes. He was hiding behind a larger tree with roots that twisted into several X’s like carved figure eights bursting from the ground. Low and keen, he held a silent snarl between his teeth. A wolf restraining herself from howl is a terrifying wolf indeed and Catarina had been spotted peeking. Without making a sound, she turned her head slightly to the left. From her periphery, she saw the wolf’s friend skulking carefully and quietly on the other side of them. He was also low and snaking through the branches. Walking this clearing for the past five or six miles exposed them. It will be faster, she said. She already knew.

At least one branch had fallen and the wolf wouldn’t see it. He would step on it just as he was getting ready to pounce and she would be afforded an extra second that would propel her. She kept her eyes and head down and noticed the six hearts drawn in sharpie on her right hand. She had been reaching for the marker to draw the seventh to track the time when she saw them. She wanted to laugh. It’s four pm, she thought. I have a metronomic heart, she thought. I’m full of shit, she thought. She inhaled and felt her pulse begin to thrum and warm her body in anticipation. She began to lift the balls of her feet. She began to clench her palms into fists with determination, her jaw with anxious habit and from her left she heard the snap. From the right, she felt the hesitation. She knew there were only two. She began to run.

From behind, she heard her friend yell “Where…” before she heard her scream. Before she heard two dozen wings beating above her from the nesting sparrows awoken by fright and taking off from their hidden holes, she heard the lone screech. Before she heard the victory howl, she heard the sudden scream. Before her right foot hit the Earth again, she heard the sound of two wolves colliding at a throat just missing Catarina. You are lucky. Before she heard her breath quickening keeping pace with her racing feet, her racing chest, she heard the beginning of a cry for help ripped in half by a hungry team and a voice far away repeating a story: you are lucky.  She was sprinting through the forest headed towards the green. It was 4 pm, 16 degrees and she felt it.


“Datura Moon: The Life and Death of Catarina Kacurek”

I have a piece of paper and

a dozen dead things;
red and wilting in
their vase
to remind me
life is fluid
so I
better keep moving

but it doesn’t really

“with sympathy”

All the blades had been painted to match the handle. Even as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she couldn’t see what was blunt, sharp, welcoming or not. Paused in panic, she lingered near the entrance overcome. Previously, sun had enveloped her; drops of snow had trimmed her coat and she could feel the cold air moving in and out her lungs. She could hear her boots crunch the frosted ground. She could feel the goosebumps line her skin underneath her fleece and was she ungrateful? Suddenly constricted by a pitch black chrysalis, she held her breath and wanted the handcuffs back, the rope around her neck, the blindfold, the cigarette and final amends; the quick and easy assassination. She waited for a light, a door, a window, any grace to come her way to show her to the exit. She saw nothing. She stood stolid. Her body was undulating in waves of tremble but she herself didn’t move. The rest of her felt motionless, burrowing in a deep place that was flooded by tears.  She didn’t make any motions to cry. Her mind was set on nothing. Her thoughts had ceased for once. She did not feel the deep emotion rushing to meet her. This was instinct come to greet her. Is this the ineffable meditation? Resigned to a sudden phlegmatic state waiting for someone to open the door and tell her it’s a joke, to tell her it’s fine, to wake her up, she couldn’t think to pinch herself. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t move. Frozen in a final quiver, she couldn’t discern the difference between a thousand knives pointing at her and the one handle she was supposed to grab. You’ll be safer underground. Like the doe letting paralysis sheathe her before the arrow hits, Catarina made no move when the first bomb dropped.

It was the Earth that had to shake her from her statue; remind her this is life or death. The ground’s vibration forced her from freeze to tumble and she fell to the right. Something skewered her shoulder. The cut was quick and sharp and fleeting like a bee sting. You feel it, but the bee is gone. You scratch your leg at the sudden welt in shock, betrayed by the bee’s assiduous maneuver. You didn’t even get a chance to swat or run. You didn’t get a chance to be scared. You just feel the bite, gasp, look to see that it’s already flying away and you catch a glimpse; it’s yellow and black vibrating body speeding away from you as you continue waiting in line for the snow cone. Spending the day poking at it, the skins turns red in horror.  Don’t scratch! your mother yells and grabs your wrist and this is how the end feels. It was a mixture of memories and closure, a mixture of lessons and execution, a mixture of panic and acceptance all coalescing into nothing.  In here, the worst place on Earth, she had been gifted this curse, this labyrinth of swords where the bees stayed after they stabbed you. They were mechanical. They never tired, never grew bored, remained immortal. Each one stood at her with their chests puffed in their menacing and sharp glisten draped in shadow. Exposed, she may not have been able to handle it. In the dark, she could at least be free from the terror of sight. A trickle of blood made it all the way to her tricep before she could orient herself. Catarina held her hands out.  

What was sharper than that first spear were all of the things she was starting to recall. Not just her mother’s voice at the water park but everything leading up to this moment and the finality of the moment before she was tossed into her pointy bee coffin. He had a sudden gentleness that struck her; a sudden recompense he wanted to give her. The way he carefully turned her around to take her blindfold off right before she walked in. You’ll be safer underground. The way his hands felt on her shoulders; soft yet utilitarian, letting his fingers feel up the back of her neck with both salacity and pique. He blew his hot breath at her skin on purpose. Within that breath, he contained a duplicity; a fervid violence that stopped her from moving anymore. To your left. Cutting the wire clamp from the back of her head with some invented urgency, at the time she heard murmurs brimming with contrition, some final show of commiseration– here look and he pushed her. She was standing at the front of a long hallway with no light coming from anywhere, no door or window and no choice but to feel her way out. She kept her hands out.

What Catarina remembered first and how she was so acutely aware of what she remembered first was the weight she carried now. The bombs were dropping one after the other in a near distance and she was keeping time with her metronomic heart. Usually calm, pacified and accurate, it was suddenly racing. Without thinking, she reached her hand to her chest to stop it, to quiet it, to say remember to breathe. She felt the metal locket suddenly. Catarina grabbed it. He had examined the silver and sapphire urn around her neck, fingering it and looking at it closely, then back at her. His nails were dirty from the woods like hers. His eyes were light brown with a ring of green around the pupil like hers. He moved his sullied black fingers up the chain threatening to rip it off of her, not with his words but with his teeth that were gritted holding a phrase tight between them. The clunky silver heart bruised her every time she ran and she had been running all of the time. Your tenacity, he hissed and dropped the locket so it banged the deep bruise that had developed on her sternum, is what I admire.  It was your low and persistent song that led them. You’re a fearless woman. I admire you for what you tried..
There were about two short seconds between her standing at the entrance and the first strike. Catarina knew what had pinched her shoulder wasn’t the lever she was looking for. She was three centimeters from the blade that just cut her when the next bomb dropped. She hadn’t moved herself. The floor had continued to push her. Her heart felt a hundred beats in and she couldn’t keep accurate time. Everything was a rush of noise and tremor. Catarina stumbled backwards and the heavy locket suddenly became airy and light, moving, swinging around her throat with ease until his ashes settled in their final betrayal. The chain hung loose and then tightly pulled her backwards onto the knife. It made a high tin sound as it was cut from her body and dropped to the floor. What is sharper are always the things remembered; noticed differently last, noticed differently in processing without the obsessive cage that keeps them. Death is a quiet examination. There is no urgency, no care in the world. You are acquiescing to ending as if you yourself had planned it.  He had asked her with a smile if she wanted to keep it. He took her silence as a complicit yes and let the blindfold drop so she could see what had graved her. He had let Catarina keep the memory of him until the end.

Her brother’s ashes had fallen but she was still chained to the wall. As her body was drawn backwards by gravity, her neck curved to enfold the weapon and something thudded at her coccyx.  It didn’t sting the way the tear at the shoulder stung or rip the way her throat was ripping open. It didn’t pierce her. It didn’t mutilate her. It announced it was there so she would know I am lever, touch me and walk through my wall of knives unscathed.

“You will know it because it will not pierce you,” he said.
Catarina settled on the handle and let out a long sigh. It lasted only half a second before she lost her breath but thousands of heart beats: a long, embarrassing half a second and thousands of heart beats of relief released in staggering breath as if she had found the exit. A pond began to form at the bottom of her throat. There were two seconds between her standing at the entrance of the doorway and one second between the next two strikes and her throat hanging on a knife. To your left and you will know it. Beneath her gallow, her tailbone knocked the knob that swung the door open and as her body settled and every sword started up her calves and thighs like vines of thorns were climbing her. The pain removed all cognition. She became sensate. You’ll be safer underground.

When his voice filled her: to your left and you will know it because it will not pierce you, it came from a well inside of her that was not of her mind but of her ruptured guts. Veins opened and her blood rushed to freedom. Liquid purged itself from every newly cut orifice in her body. Carotid arteries formed oceans that spilled out of her propped open mouth. Thick, red streams ran down her chin and dripped onto the blade that had torn through her stomach. Her senses were acute, sharpened. It was not what she imagined. She felt no real pain but she felt everything flood at once–that deep repressed emotion, and she could hear her own drops of blood hit the metal like a drizzle of rainwater slowly falling from the roof.

“Come on!” he yelled.

She was running behind him but her eyes were focused on the stick in her hand, the one she picked. She made sure to always pick her own.
“You cheat!”

“HA! YOU CHEAT CAT!” he growled.
It was a small twig. It had one tiny branch sticking out at the top right of it so she could remember which one it was and keep an eye on it more easily but the current was fast. She didn’t account for it being flipped over and over dozens of time. There was no “top right” immediately upon entering the stream. It was all brown blur and rushing with the rest of the tiny leaves and sticks in the gutter. The only way Catarina could keep an eye on her stick was to run right next to it and follow it the whole time.
“That one is too small, lion,” he said again.

“No way, it’s a race anyway; the smaller the better, the faster.”

“Whatever.” He tossed his branch and ran ahead.
“Hey! Hey!” Catarina screamed and tossed hers in the gutter and began to run.

He was already halfway up the block near the stop sign and going to round the corner before she got there. He was also right. The rains had been high and so had the winds and the current was taking her stick faster than she planned.  Keeping her head down, she didn’t even notice the blue sedan swerving around the corner, her shoes slipping on the slick black asphalt beneath her and her brother, suddenly resurrected inside the neighbor’s bush, grabbing her by the elbow to toss her out of the way of the oncoming car.

Catarina was a river becoming boundless, becoming lake, becoming rising flood in body. In the darkness, she could barely make out the machete-lined tomb but as the wall began to move, a tiny sliver of light bounced off the tips facing her. She could see that every knife pointed at her from only about three feet away. The wall was opening to another hallway. Eyes heavy, spent and fluttering and desperately trying to shut, were being willed open by a deep resolve inside of her. It was like fighting sleep on Christmas Eve. Let me see Santa Claus. Let me see what I won.

The only weight she carried with her were the last two words he said: his prediction, not his warning but his knowledge and mercy, a mercy she hadn’t trusted until her final half heartbeat. And fast.

He said, “The exit is to your left and you will know it because it will not pierce you.” As he pushed her inside of her mausoleum, he added, “And fast.”

The things you remember last, you carry these with you as you pass. And fast. The trauma of being stabbed to death with ingenuity that far exceeded her power, she could leave that. The tackle to the ground as he pinned her, she could leave that. Dragging her through the last mile of woods to imprison her, to taunt her, to smile at her with lust and longing and his fucked feelings of entitlement as he recounted her earlier betrayal. You are a sly bitch. She didn’t even try to explain herself to him. They understood each other the way predators understand each other; the way lions kill only with hunger and need, using war for territory and feast. Killing in wilderness is not a sentimental thing. She understood him as the predator understanding herself as the predator. She didn’t fault him. Murder was a word created by humanity to press morality onto us, but animals kill with great speed and precision and there is no sense of guilt or mourning. Killing is a very natural need. In fact, the world demands it. Neither she nor him mourned this passage. This was not sentimental. Yet, there was a feeling.

The way he held the blue and silver heart in admiration and removed her blindfold to show her the trap, Catarina held that in esteem like it was the agape promised by god. You are a sly bitch. The necklace had fallen somewhere on the floor and she was free. You have to be more careful, lion, her brother squeezed her skinny arm so tight in that moment it left a handprint. He dragged her back home and she was wailing about the race and her stick.

“It’s over,Alex said. “I’m taking you home.”

She was a brat that day, like every day, immediately forgetting her brother just saved her life. She was kicking and screaming and demanding a do-over, another game, another victory.


He let her go and walked home alone. She stood listless by the giant puddle at the entrance of their court and began yelling his name.

“Alex! Alex!”

But he didn’t turn around.

“Alex! Come back!”

The wall had turned all the way around and she was facing another wall of swords hundreds of feet long. She would have never made it. Her eyes shut and she held a tempestuous hazel gaze in her heart; a gaze marked troubled, starving and promising return.

“The Woman Who  Saw Her Own Death”

Blog at

Up ↑