Corinna Cook
I sleep on a plush couch in front of the woodstove under the mounted head of a bison. The bison’s head is beautiful and enormous and probably haunted. I believe I could fit my whole body into it. Some folding is all it would take: bent knees, abdomen pressed to thighs, chin tucked, arms hugging. I imagine rivers of muscle from which the bison’s head was severed. In my fetal position, curled up inside its skull, I’m rocked left and right, alone with every choice I’ve ever made. The ungulate nibbles and chews, crunches and slurps, while the woodstove hisses and grows, eventually, dim.
