Velociraptors and I have faces for the movies.

We have learned how to open doors: We scrape talons

across the knob, sneak out middle of the night

leave fading indent in the bed. He calls asking where I am.

I’m in your blind spot.

I’m watching heat radiate off you

as you stumble through the woods. I am attracted

to movement, meaning I only chase something when it runs.

Like a velociraptor, I will not text you back.
He kisses me like he doesn’t even know I have teeth,

like I don’t mouth his neck carotid and catastrophe.

He still thinks the parts of him I’ve swallowed are pieces

he’ll get to keep. When he looks into my eyes, I try to seem

like a warm-blooded girl, but I am a fucking velociraptor;

I trace my lineage back to birds.

He doesn’t understand how I can be so lizard-distant,

why I don’t want to kiss him outside the restaurant;

chalk it up to Cretaceous differences.
Squishy mammal boy, I don’t hunt in packs;

I have hooks for hands and very limited patience for bouquets.

If you wander into my woods, don’t be shocked when you call

and I don’t answer. Check your periph; don’t ignore that rustling.

You might have time for one last “clever girl” before you die.
Elisa Chavez is our Poet in Residence for January. Previously this month: "Revenge", "Ways of Devouring a Man", and "Tips for Surviving the Saw Franchise". She also sat for an interview.