peyote ripples upon
my father’s hands,
I horde my poems in the melisma
of my bare bones within the arboretum
and the vagary of the moon
she nocturnes this feeling of death;
it’s early winter and the sea girls
wormhole into the sea
the mirror purports
I writ my ghosts in the looking glass,
this rite of amnesia, I’ll die in the sea
for I am her child, and she gives me the taste of wine
from the moon’s extinct flower; her last breath abandons
the dance of poison, a maddened marriage
cauled in starlight death
in the early winter, feral, ferried.
© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
First featured in Free Verse Revolution’s Sunday Best.
Reposted for the dVerse open link night.