“Joan of Arc”

dirty hands, this chapel is closed

indefinite flesh prison/hatred

a blood moon – eclipse

I must have been an angel in the beginning

a raped viking vessel

try me, fucker, try my eyes

like lies and liars and sinners

I must have given myself to the flame

scarlet ink, gunpowder, hitched skirts,

string me up on your bloody bleeding cross

your finger to my lips

how do they taste

the wind laced/poison breath

the harbor reminds me of death

“Able-Bodied”

Where my feet

should be

can’t begin to step

to step

to step

takes energy

I do not have

to walk

I’d rather fly

to step

to glide

past the brick

and mortar

down a set of stone

steps going down

going down

that building is so

white it hurts

my eyes

can’t look

now to step

to step

a familiar

what path

is this?

A bird

am I

just a limping thing

or can I

fly

to glide my

arms open wide

for some semblance

a taste of home

“Corsets: Part Two”

binding history

a ghost in the fog

golden fruit

broken spinal

columns

of a war

a war of

blood and thorns

born of a war

lead paint

lead blade

lead pencil

black vines

of obsidian

made of war

orange sparrow

stuck to her

a war partridge

a partridge of war

rivers running

red rivers

made of battles

chaos rising

a ghost in the fog

binding history

a war of wounds

smudged bodies

the all-seeing eye

 

“Scrying Mirror”

Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.

I am strange,

paltry,

ugly.

I take swords to my chest, you see,

and I plunge them deep

whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,

for my own liking.

I then pull them out and push them in again

and again

and again.

The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.

The pain of cracking my own chest open,

and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.

And the hope that you, darling, like it too.