Myth

After Tomaz Salamun

My depression  is a cannibal. My depression trims
its neck in silk jacquard, its noose a double Windsor,
paisley dimpled. It crawls from the mouths of caves,

licks its lips, truffle black, & trenches the fat
of the soil, the root. It cultivates its own food. Ladies
who care about that sort of thing palm their chests

& gasp lungfuls of smoke, ask it how it temples
its body just so. My depression smiles, crooked tooth
a tired soldier beside its brothers, and sweeps an arm to the killing

field. What a garden you’ve grown, they say. What a labor of love.
Perhaps they’ll walk the perimeter together, this path
so sacred as a circle of salt, and feel safe in the ditches

its footfall has made. My depression’s voice is a hush
of muslin when it tells them not to worry about falling
behind. In time, it will be at their backs again

to tongue the salt from their earlobes,

to pulp their bellies

with dread.

By Jacqueline Boucher

Biography:

Jacqueline Boucher lives and writes in Northern Michigan. Her work was a finalist for the 2016 Write Bloody manuscript contest, and has appeared in BOOTH, SmokeLong Quarterly, Hobart, and other magazines. She can be found on Twitter @jacqueboucher.