Know now that I am not the woman you came back for
when the street lights died,
Not the one you tipped your hat to and studied
for countless hours,
Not the one you accentuated with your shadows
or preened with your TV static.
Some women look down at their hands and find truths
lying there like feathers
but not me.
Some women are translucent as they say
what they must say
but not me.
I breathe fire and all those things.
I shatter and reshape the crystal glass.
I forget to apologise for being free.
Hel - solemn and just queen of the lowest world
Holy the black bridge which leads to your kingdom of ice
Holy your great work, the duty of honour and majesty.
I bow to your light and shadow,
the bones and the flesh fused,
a sacred reflection of all which lies in the psyche of man.
I taste the bitter apples from your dark orchard
and see my own face in your blade.
Sweet mother of darkness and death, be with me now.
Holy half-maiden of the lowest realm,
Give me release, acceptance, strength and surrender.
The indelible dark milk of your tears and the ticking bombs of your hopes release peace into each corner of the world.
Let go, let go, let go.
Poems are tiny orbs containing death,
held in the hands of weird bluish gods.
Your mouth was a dark American door. It opened without incident to the smell of cigarettes and deep regret.
I was once the only devotchka in possession of a rifle. I laced my love around the periphery and sleeplessly guarded the house. A skeleton army came through town. My bullets passed straight through their rib cages. That was February, when the ground was hard as sin and I thought I had to prove something to the ghost of my father. Nowadays, sweet one, I am unarmed.
Learn to experience ruined materials. Learn to shake dust from the dreamscape and arrange statuettes into gangs. Learn to lean on the hillside of garbage bags. Learn to be graceful, even when love is scarce.
The weird equations of my clothes take shape on the hard ground.
This place is not what it seems.
Even the air is restless.
Only dreadful fairy tales remain after the horrifying hands of the night have stolen everything else.
Dreadful geraniums stink up my dreams.
Theirs is the odor of a lost generation.
Theirs is the perfume of dust.
This is the noise you make when you break the surface of the water.
What does it mean to heal? It means you feel yourself swell once more in the belly of your mother. It means you no longer chase the mean dog of your father's love. It means you live long in the fire pit of poetry. It means your heart sheds a skin and comes out like a fist, clutching the name you finally give to yourself.
I am a flooded circle, childless and true. I am the black dependable goddess of death. Call me madam or call me mother; I will tuck you in when your days are done.
Your drastic hands displaced all the stars in the sky. Wisdom engine. Weird wired lord of rains and horses. You shake smashed mythologies from the folds in your old black coat and when you open your mouth, street lights, street lights.
I fell asleep a hunk of Amethyst and woke up a glass of putrid milk. In walk all the expected dead, the cut constellations of their chains glinting and the white sheets like Novocaine sleep. You cough me up from your one malicious lung and weigh my sad heart against a feather.
I have constructed a house from the keys of your old piano. I have bitten at the heels of your mother, begging for news. I have prayed over the faceless ice of your door because you are no longer home. I have superimposed my eyes onto the bonnet of your car. Helpless. Animalistic. Spent. Aggrieved with my hands upturned and my tongue in a straight line to the sky. I have unfolded your thank you letter and used it to clean my wounds. I have conjured strange gods to chase you through abandoned towns. Smashed. Wasted. Neck-deep in debris. Lurid. Shredding each phase of the moon to pieces with my teeth.