This is a short, odd piece that I’ve been sitting on for awhile now. I’m not always the best judge of my own work, but I will say that I feel something here is not working, though I can’t put my finger on it….
Nonetheless, I thought I’d share, because I don’t really see this poem/fragment/thing ever finding a proper home…or getting the overhaul it surely needs, because I’m not too worried about it to be honest. It will most likely die here. And that’s okay. We have an understanding. 
On the Isle of Black Dogs
You pressed your teeth into my skin,
left behind a savage throbbing.
Rough orange tongues of sun
licked the west side of our cabin
then scattered away like rabbits.
A deep biting cold rode ashore
on the ripples stones make
as they cut into a body of water,
the promise of winter’s arrival,
dead things dangling from its teeth,
crept across the lake,
its yellow eyes burning
like leaves.
Hi Amber–I also meant to comment on your divorce poem, which I think is brilliant. I read it twice just for the pleasure of it.
This poem can totally work if you change all the verbs to present tense. It makes it more immediate and biting. The very last part, also change “dangling” to dangle. Try it that way and see what a difference it makes. You rock.
Julie!! Thank you!
I’m going to go back and take another look (or more likely several more looks) at this thing and see what I can do with it.
Have you tried sending it to The Weekenders or The Blue Hour? I really like the force of the images. Think that the editors of those journals might, too. http://theweekendersmagazine.blogspot.com/
http://thebluehourmagazine.com/
Thanks for the heads up!
I’m reading your chapbook manuscript now. I’m absolutely in love with your imagery! Will be e-mailing you soon. Thank you for trusting me with your work.