Nani

-For Sarah, in memory of her kitty, Nani-Noo

Pink-toothed and lithe, Nani brings
a dead bunny to the door, its wheat face
half-eaten, a rust river matted to its fur.

Nani is a child of God and a murderer
and worse, she took a child’s life.
But Nature’s breast is a bloom

of bougainvillea, her thighs
two grass fields in wind, her waist
-coat, briar. Nani licks a paw where

her kill spilled over. Evil is funny,
charming, all wit and quip,
a liar. The smiling kind you invite

in to destroy you, the kind you
cry for alone when life folds
your wrists back till they snap

and it’s cold. Nani purrs as she drops
the limp mound to the ground and recalls
her God: lips dipped in the blood

of cherries. Brimming with ecstasy
her tail twitches, and she rubs
her long body into the stone steps

of the garden, into the still-hot mesh
of the screen door, into the hard shaft
of a sycamore. She rubs her long body

into the pitch of night, stars white
as cherubs whisper: Lover
lover, bring us another.

Remy Ramirez (she/her) has an MA in creative writing from the University of Texas at Austin. Her poems have been featured in The Southern Review, Room, Breakwater Review, and The Miscreant, among others; her essays in Marie Claire and Cherry Bombe Mag; and her celebrity interviews in NYLON, BUST, and Tidal (where she is currently the executive editor). She lives in Sedona, AZ because the thrifting is good and so is the karaoke.

Published March 28 2022