His sheets smell of formalin.
She feels as if her insides

are outside her, in a freezer.
Instead of a heart

she now has cotton wool,
and where he’s stitched her

back together the seams itch.
While she was out cold he scraped

out her eye-sockets to insert
glass eyes she cannot close.






He comes like ninety
wolves leaping through air

he is Bête du Gévaudan
killer-wolf and loup-garou

he comes as a mastiff-hyena cross
as he flies he catches dogs

mid-air and toys with them
she is his shepherdess

she’ll go on all fours for him
he’ll bite her by the scruff

the bed his watering hole
for all the night-beasts

you are mine he repeats
you are thinking of me




Photograph © Jim Hickcox

These poems are from Petit’s forthcoming collection Mama Amazonica, to be published by Bloodaxe Books in September. 

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