Quail
— margot armbruster

this kind of summer is hard & sharp. we are passing

the blackberry orchard which is spilling over

with fruit. you have one hand on the wheel, your shirt

is rippling in the wind & you keep talking

about hunger. the way maceration, the way devouring

is a kind of love. you say you have sometimes

waited hours for quail to dart into the scope of your gun.

you say your body tenses up with the bloodlust,

that you pick at the carcass until nothing remains except

milk-white spines of bones. you say all this &

you say you love me. when you are drunk tonight you

will force me against the car door & thrust

your sour tongue into my mouth. I will feel hunted, I

will feel your hands rough against my skin

like they are slick with quail blood. I will say nothing.

for now I turn my head to the window & try

to count the bushes blurring by, their brambles clawing

hotly up into the hissing, purpling sky.


 

Margot Armbruster is a high school student from Wisconsin. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIALOGIST, Glass Kite Anthology, and The Best Teen Writing of 2016, among others. She participated in the Adroit Journal’s 2016 Summer Mentorship and has been recognized by Princeton University, the Poetry Society of the UK, and Hollins University.