Fall 2009, #16
       "Woodchuck vs. the Hank Williams Zombie"


     by Katrinka Moore

His cheekbones remind her of the creek behind her mother’s house. Tonight they are practicing after the evening class. Cattails, shallows. His skin is taupe, yellow-tinged. A heron was fishing. This dance: travels in geologic time. Mud on the banks. Foot lifts, lowers toe to heel. Its fishing was stillness. A path across the floor, waiting in curling wind. She can’t understand what he says, desu ne? Then striking. Splashed, awkward. Air drifts, body rotates on its axis. Dropped the fish on the ground, hashi. What he means. Her palm turns to face overhead, tortoise-paced. Stabbed it hard, like a shot. So desu. Behind the windows is black, she has only Washed the fish, stabbed it again. They bolt-lock the door, ride down in the sluggish elevator. Meandering, lightning. They don’t speak. Out on the sidewalk, dark garbage. The bend of the creek. Finally swallowed it whole. Kohi? he asks. He means does she want a cup of coffee.