Naugahyde
Kelly Boyker
She meets you at the door draped in white fur, animal tails
dripping all around her ankles and asks if you have the right
address. As she turns away you see just the red tips of her
nipples and needle marks, like badger bites, down her neck.
She smiles and beckons you to the living room where
young men slumber naked, coiled in bear, rabbit and fox.
This is not night but a brilliant day in which a gorged fly
taps at the window and pale water laps against the
bulkhead. She rubs her face against your wrist and
something inside you turns over. Red lights wink over
rising water. Warning or promise, all shimmery and
glistening, her teeth stitch patterns impossible to unravel.
Later you’ll retrace your steps to the point before you
unwound to the girl in the coat, rank with fish stench, who
invited you in with a turn of mink and copper hair.
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