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Mary dreams she is a child, hot gruel swelling her belly.
She has cracked her mother's pitcher and lied about it.
"Little girls who lie will grow long hairy asses' ears,"
her mother scolds, twisting Mary's braids.
Her father threads braided hemp through a ring
in a wooden horse's nose so she can pull it.
Mary piles pebbles into a wobbly house,
her father's house. No safety there,
just stone and air,
precarious and precise as instinct.
Immutable distances circle me.
My tower room is still
As a scorpion's eye.
Reflexes warn me of silence's ashes.
I regard battles with the practiced eye of a virgin
Tracking every flaw.
Up here in the tower, anguish, auctions, blind men and self destruction,
Windows cross beamed against pain.
Hands conduct pain,
Witnesses to the angels who guard the door.
Their laughter clogged with my makeshift sweat.
They lecture me about my arrogance.
Mute I stand betrayed.
I touch nothing but the palms of stones.
No longer can I beggar myself for grace.
I attempt to speak to the crying buried in the wall.
I may be she.
Minutes drip from tallow candles, spiderwebs of translucent wax.
I want to unleash a ladder, a tail of silk
They tried to cut, scissors broke.
They try to burn, the flame turned to milk and I fed the ravens, their claws on stone,
a skittering music that I dance to.
Then they braided and twisted, wrapped it through iron rings in the wall.
You must petrify air, my love, to reac
Hold me, taste the elder berries I have rubbed into my throat.
When you wake, your skin will be ridged like bark
and your hair, charred oak black
veined with green and bindings of earth and pale worms.
Roots will curl, spiderwebs delicate as a eyelash, spun from quartz..
They will scribble my words on your skin, etchings on a tomb. "Dearly beloved"
and I do love you, the bruised iris of your eyes.
I will come with you, kiss your mouth, your shoulder,
ridges of bird wings the hollow of your hip where river mist will pool.
But when I leave, you will not follow binding me to you.
Ward NineWard Nine
Ward nine is for the crazies,
The lunatics and the despoilers
Who know there are entrances that have no exits.
And for this knowledge, God give us
Of greyhounds with almond black, blind burnt eyes
Of crows that eat the inside of your mouths.
For a week, I've said nothing.
Not madness, simply sheer stubbornness.
"Muleheaded," you mutter,
"once you get an idea in your head..."
Silence, snap. Without words, things
become each other. A chair
is a basket, your mouth is
baked fish, funeral meats.
You try to feed me
But I don't want anything, anymore.
"Say something," you beg.
But I have. "No"
Paralysis, a chill,
I try to move towards you
but I can't. The film jerk backwards.
Apples blossom in their hands,
then fly and nest in green leaves,
The shattered glass melts, the head
falls backwards, no lines of blood.
The projectionist may figure it out one day
I try but ....a hand slowly opens, nothing there.
We must start there, smooth,
flat skin, then touch then heat.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More