I am decked head to
toe in rosary and sapphire
ashes, free of any
previous attachment;
hidden by feathers,

shielded by sigils,
the bark and the strand;
the one line of web
that catches the moonlight so you
know what trap you are walking
into as you land.

I am striped like a tiger
with the arteries of
the other in
another insurrection and
I am bathed in night
so you only see me
when I drape myself
in stars, become
a roving constellation.
together we
are better like
a pack:

taut-backed:
hold our curves
like jello axes,
my mouth is sometimes
sandstorm
then suddenly
wet.
little storm and waves, a
flood     we are bright eyes and
hearts like meandering cannons,
step soft and low like lions
or snakes in the grass.
our chipped nails hold prayer, tongues,
the clipped wings of our grandmothers.
we are here.
we are clawing at your porch
and oiling the glass in silence
to wind up your banister
without notice   teeth out,

sliding under sheets,

look

 
        i’ve got an apple for you to bite.
breath like gentle reminders from God
               now, now, learn to be amenable
feel the uneven pulse that vengeance wore;
the way I lay and devour your
sword; the way I become naked
and big and magnetic like Jupiter:
suck it in and
throw it back out at you;
mangled, a new form you can’t
manage anymore.
pausing so you understand the difference in
revival and survived
as you lean into every
sharp point I can provide.

glint from the knife reveals
an untamed eyelash:
unpainted and short and straight
with might.
we are partially cloaked but baring
light smiles,
wayward breasts you can’t touch,
wild right,
a heat between our thighs that you can’t
hunt, and it’s close enough to

smell,
to taste,
to lick our days to waste.
we are wearing the masks of
unlectured howls,
thorns plucked from our ribs,
a blood crusted march,
a cold and ancient
vendetta.
we are arrows:
lit and pointed.

we, my sons,
are coming to get
you.


“the matriarch” or “the other us”

 

 

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