In the Mask Shop—
the jackal intrigues: glossy ears
the color of onyx, snout carved
like a tomb. Rabbits next, their eyes
slit—starless on the porcelain. My sister
pulls a skull from the wall, its teeth
bold like boyhood. Dark branches
fork from the eyes, boughs spooked,
golden leaves spread across the crown.
In the mirror, she wears the underworld,
face flooded with trees, one great bone.
Resurrected, she beckons & I reach
for a mask, the skull a fate I’ve always
known. Behind it I am cloaked,
forever dark in my girl-head, a womb
made of stones. What can I say—
our bodies are tragic houses,
the cults of ghosts. & girls are taught
our death tastes like pomegranate,
never how it sours in the throat.
Megan Peak holds an M.F.A. from The Ohio State University. Her work has been published in Blackbird, Indiana Review, Linebreak, Ninth Letter, North American Review, Pleiades, Ploughshares, Verse Daily, among others. She currently lives in Fort Worth, TX with her partner and son.