somewhere between
the three o'clock moon & silk-numb collarbones a distant grandmother performs witch-talk on effigies coveted prayers flesh to ashes waiting graves & it unfolds this groundhog's altar – a memory, or a dream, or a memory of a dream crooned in the witching hour: deities at my feet with their gaping mouths pit of blackened sea slow & bottomless drowning at every end of it half-suns hemorrhaging mortal wounds open my eyes to the darkest dawn in a fury water purged in the form of air between my lips & it lurks just the same beneath the surface of men: somewhere between macrophage & possession an aptitude for rotting. |
© 2022 Tatiana Clark