This content is intended for mature audiences.Sign In To Confirm Your Age
or, enter your birth date.
|Here is a link where i read it. swansisters.tumblr.com/. Dead rabbits and wolves and sweet silver mercury|
|A link to my reading the poem. swansisters.tumblr.com/ When the world leaves you, your body loosening|
RemembranceRemembranceRemembrance by swansisters
I will not remember,
an ice spurred window is more forgiving.
Your words a drought,
leaving me heat broken.
I want ice.
Reverberations of your presence wither.
I am still trying to find the nerves you dismembered.
A beggar swaps the core of my heart
for an old wool coat, moth splattered holes.
I will not remember.
I will section existence,
stop my eyes from reproducing hollows.
I will not remember.
My flesh always suspicious,
my eyes pigeon-toed with vacancy.
I will number eternity with the swoop of a sigh,
plow eggs until they spout dragon teeth.
But your fingertips will always identify my flesh.
DullDullDull by swansisters
Your voice falters,
your hands chopping
cauliflower, parsley, grace.
Saint Theresa felt the love of God as an arrow.
You don't know what to say.
Adomni Christos, her stigmata is an open mouth,
articulate with blood.
"We could try ...." you start to say,
the knife slips, a pale bloodless cut.
"Let me see," I ask, even though
there is nothing I can do.
This thing that has caught us
is dull not sharp.
SnakeSnakeSnake by swansisters
Mary, fountain of pearl, Ave Maria,
this morning, I napped with a garter snake,
a green apricot stick.
They say you will crush
the serpent's head beneath your heel,
a jeweled rattle. The serpent
that flickered in Eve's mind. "Eat,
and you shall be like gods."
He hissed like an angel's wing
and that is why she loved him.
The pomegranate's skin was hard
but Eve bit harder, Eva, Ave Maria,
the juice stained her hands, a birthmark
of grace not innocence. "Eat,
if you want." And that is when she knew.
No necessity just choice,
no pattern, the scratch and scrape of prophecy.
That was what the god knew. He gave us
the power of serpents, a green dizziness
of pain and choice. The snake
curled around Eve's ankle, so supple,
a scaled hank of silk, thick as her braid.
This morning, my mother braided my hair
and kissed my forehead. I stroked the snake's scales,
each one a new leaf, the prick of a blueberry bramble,
leaving behind my scent, crushed caraway seeds.
But the snake will shred her s
Painter's WifeThe Painter's WifePainter's Wife by swansisters
Whenever she sees the virgin's face,
her mind smoothes itself into a blank.
Her husband thinks it's grief. Rather it is grave recognition.
She hears the hiss
and scratch of angel wings. When she sleeps,
the angels curl up against her like fevered damp children.
They never console her for the dead child
that floats in her belly. Whenever she forces it
out into rough being, it swims back
into her huddled emptiness again and again.
Her husband has painted a multitude of virgins
as though by painting a woman with a living child,
he can give her a living child.
But she knows better. The virgin bore a child
for those who want never to die. She bears the messiah
for those who want never to be born.