the slow encroach
stinging so, it broke the choke
and rough, coarse femininity once kept in check with wine and herbs
now slips away, and hurts.

Recalling is like
dreams of forests heaving milk and music,
an ancient memory whose dew pools in your mouth with distaste
and tulip'd sap leaks at sordid urge.
what we want is still at sea, so let the spray bite your face
taste the past in those ever-watching waters
and burn hair on the pyres for your grandaughters, and grandaughters' daughters.

Sometimes, the most beautiful pieces of art,
come from the most damaged and broken
people, isolation in solitude, original persona,
innovator of thought. They’re exiled in social
circles, frowned upon by family, ignored by
most. Dare to be themselves, dared to create
art.
(knowledge variable)

The devout of Saint Sophia, the ones who prayed
Venerated, ******-martyr, holy hunger
The priestesses, vestal tombs. Virgins of Etrusca
What do they know of me?
Waifish, heart-sad, victim of ill womanhood
Persecutor, rejector of the womb,
Denier of her blood.