Sometimes I hear your voice on the wind
and stand in the barley blooms, waiting.
As summer heat fills my nostrils, I want
your soft scent of wet wood,
of frankincense and bread.
When you left you took your goodbyes with you,
everything but your silver cross
it's close to my breast and pendant wand,
cool with the fading magic of you
You kept them away — the night thieves.
Not the bandits or Saracen tribes,
but the singing ghouls and demonkind,
crooning for a piece of my childhood.
Even when you're gone, I protect our fille cherie.
An indigo spell surrounds this home,
lilac wine and feathers of owl,
suspended in air by wayward prayers
Why cure the malady after it's done?
— after she's tried for witchcraft, and dead?
Cursed are the ones who have the Sight
and the luxury to be afraid.
Sometimes when my awareness is spent,
after sex or just before sleep
dark spirits pierce their horns through the shield,
stand at our door and morph into you
You smile with your suitcase firm in the dirt,
tell me you're sick of the holy life
and say you need your wife again.
Once I almost let you in.
The demon rejoiced
There's a gap in my hand where my fourth finger was,
a tongue made of emerald flame claimed it.
Bleeding green I bolted the door,
clutched our blood tight unto my chest,
breathing Hail Marys until dawn
YOU ARE READING
Lives Collide
PoetryDo I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes). - 'Song of Myself,' Walt Whitman It's hard to know sometimes who you're meant to be. And that's kind of okay. One day I feel like a witch, another like...
