Death Howl
Łukasz Drobnik
Crows spew death. Spiders inject you with poison. Goats have the power to revive. (If only they used it on your son.) Leeches drench you in acid. You craft spells from their entrails.
You remember his first words. You remember him naming a branch that wasn’t there. You remember the forest cradling him in the palm of its birch-fingered hand. You remember sawing antlers off his limp head and burying him in a lake.
Crystals blind you. Owls glare into your mind. Paws slash you with their claws. (If only they tore a path to your son.) Dragonflies lay eggs to build an army. You die and die and die.
You remember his little fingers. You remember them twirling a rodent skull with awe you’d never known. You remember his smile obliterating all grief. You remember hiding his budding antlers from your brother and sister.
Boars impale you. Jellyfish kill you with one sting. Rotten teeth part the ground. (If only they unearthed your son.) Earwigs cut through your guts. You grow stronger with each death.
You remember his father. You remember a bug landing on his tensing throat where you pointed your arrow. You remember his promise of a child in exchange for his life. You remember your brother and sister guiding you to the land of the dead in search of your son.
Trunks shoot fire. Crocodiles pierce through you. Snails bite and retreat to their shells. (If only you returned to your son’s arms.) Frogs barf copies of themselves. You start to realize you’ll never get him back.
You remember his last moments. You remember a cone cracking under his hooves. You remember your brother and sister, unaware, tensing their bows at your son and his father. You remember counting years since your mother had died.
Crows spew death. Spiders inject you with poison. Goats have the power to revive.