Twelve-fingered Witch

My mind is a twelve-fingered witch

rearranging air into flames—

learning innumerable routes

to your caves filled with sizzled sin.

 

My dreaming is disaligned, pinned

in a shadeless tree, lonely and

misunderstood. I bite the wind

like a black god of the desert—

 

and volts of blue light snap my woods

out of sight like a white prophet.

Your waved hair silks my ribs—gets hold

of my roots. I found your nude thigh

 

in haunted villages, ashamed

where the night suppers the last days.  

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The Hanger

By the pores of my skin some monster jostled me.

I quivered in its decaying sharp nails like a squirming maggot.

 

The evenings flashed out of vision like a chameleon’s tongue

A realm of sloughing black mornings in a slimy mouth.

 

Vulnerable tendencies cocooned me within this nest

If you love me, you wouldn’t save me.