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

“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

 

“Corsets: Part One”

rib cages

leather threads

threads

time cracking

cracking her

spine already

cracked

bound chest

leather health

buckled medicine

unlike vanity

vanity

wrought cages

rib cages

holes where

she should be

should be

straight and

narrow waist

bound chest

bound and binding

a contract with

herself with

herself

doctor’s orders

 

 

“The Haunting”

A darkness fleeting.

Your own light bulb,

crushed under your own two feet.

A smear of blue.

A drop of red,

on your stomach,

the side of his bed.

A danger,

a relic.

“Convince me,”

he says.

You can still see his voice,

a shadow,

dripping in barbed desire.

Something tangled up,

between your thighs,

around your pretty neck.

It was only the sheets.

 

 

“Me Merciful”

Fighting by your hands,

lingering in the stairwell.

My fists tucked between my thighs.

You breathing my breath,

stealing much more than my sunrise.

How did this happen?

Who is to blame?

Was it the night sky,

who brought us together?

Or was it the rain?

Caking my skin with marble,

encasing by your touch.

You were gone

before I had a chance to dry.