by Jasmine Sawers David Stamm Nimble up the ladder of her hair she pulls him in lit by the scent of the setting sun, blood rollicking like the threat of a summer storm churning over the trees. Blood up, low animal scent of him strong at the juncture of his neck, bearing her down into her featherbed where his skin blazing on hers (no one’s ever touched her but Mother, no one’s ever seen her but Mother, when she first heard his voice she thought it new birdsong, when she first