On Small Mercies

You did not know about the trifling bird until the hound took it away. Blood stains the blue and golden feathers, and its chirps are throaty moans. She came to you caged, and you failed to set her free. The beautiful dress did not conceal and you take what’s yours even as the claws rake your back.

Bones crack. Then the wings flap, twitch, and die.

You are now: Menaced By A Hound of Dreams

You wake tasting sickly sweet spirits, fruit juices running ruby-red from your ruddy lips.