Against Anarchy
by Krystal Languell
Nibbling at something against its belly,
the hamster bends like an otter does
to eat as it floats until the thing rolls away
and she begins to wash her face red.
The situation torques as I assemble clues
about sex and her mate, red-nosed, sniffing
her tail, licks his paws of thick paint.
Foreign blood always looks like this.
There is a lump in the pine bedding,
miscarried and maroon, viscous like
a nugget of General Tso’s chicken too soft
against my red sugared teeth so I have to
hold my napkin to my mouth and spit.


