101 162 145 163

My tusks clash with those of Ares. We push at each other with our arms, dig our hooves into the ground. I stab Ares, and Ares stabs Ares, and Ares stabs me with a spear. We leak all over ourselves. Ares gets a tusk to the gut.

When all but Ares have fallen, Apollo pins arrows neatly into him. Sometimes he pins them in our chests, sometimes through the coarse fibers of our brows, sometimes in the backs of our knees. After Ares falls, Apollo melds our casings with his electric fingers. He mends and patches our every leak; he pulls dents smooth with his magnets.

After we have cooled we rise up, we battle again. This is our joy.

About abi nighthill

Abi has a BA in Poetry from Columbia College Chicago.
This entry was posted in National Poetry Writing Month, Poetry and Nonfiction, Science Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to 101 162 145 163

  1. Samantha says:

    jesus fuck this rules enough to make me write something kind of as a response,


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