i. Prodigal daughter


I flew out my mother as a prophecy.
An oracle, a sinner; girl in the wrong
place at the right time. Not who I was
supposed to be. Scripture on my arms,
coating the back of my throat, words
I’ve never wanted to read.

I crawled out my mother’s womb
with a ****** cough:
Grandmother’s handkerchief.
Some letters.
No name. Not mine.

I carried myself out my mother’s soul,
hands stained red with prayer,
legacy shattering a baby’s spine,
bearing the sin of
prophecy.

She’s always told me,
You never cried.

ii. Menace


I bury my teeth in the backyard
to stop myself from biting back.
I have a few left up in
sore bleeding gums,
burning softly
and waiting
for the day
I will speak.

A demon somewhere in
the dirt runs its fingers
down my forearm.
There are bones
molting along
with feathers. I am
buying bigger
band aids these
days: they wrap
around my arms
as vines left in
the sun to rot.

Crows
wait on my windowsill
to make sure I am okay.

But I am a burning woman
settled in the wallpaper. I’m
sure my eyes are yellow again:
I cry as she paints, sealing my
body up in the floral silhouette.
This house is as haunted
                                         as me.

The demon has an alibi.
Liar, it spats.


iii. Flight of the wolves  

Moon takes me by the hand. Some
ancient light. Howls in the distance.
I dance through the edge of forest
wishing they would utter my name.

Moon calls out this time, urging me
to step closer. I prowl out to
the real world, greeted by snarls.
I bite at the air, our feral eyes
sliding into one another's.
Before I can
escape we are already
running.

The moon watches us:
In all our inhuman
humanity. we rush
through leaves and
spoiled mud, running
against ourselves
and bleeding stars.

fading as nothing
but hungry dogs
into the night.

Here, they whisper. Eat.


i.v. By the fireplace

I have never wanted touch
like this. They gather me
into their arms, one by one.
Something mysterious lingers
in the air, like an old cup of
tea. I feel as if I have swallowed
someone else’s sun, whole. I
do not let myself think of
prophecies. I cannot let
my spine feel it,
either. I want them
to stay.  

Fire has his hand in my mouth.
But I refuse to scream. Months
gather on, and I assimilate to
the fire and embrace. I’m
mumbling of prophecy
in my sleep. Bones
tremble as they realize
we’ll never know
what’s coming
next.

The future leads me to
a lavender loveseat
for just me alone.

Fire takes his hand
from my mouth
briefly, with pity
and permission
to breathe. They
wander, picking
dust and dirt from
my hair.

Oxygen tickles the
roof of my mouth,
and I realize the
settled words have
faded away. I am
warm now, despite
my barefoot stance
in the dirt.

I’m sorry, Fire mumbles. I had just hoped to help.


v. Town fair memory

They find me by the craft table
breathing in an elixir of sunset.
Shadows tiptoe around my adolescence.
Maybe they are all my first loves.
Is this a family? I’m not entirely
sure if they’ll stick around once
they find I am drenched in
divination and sweat.

Three ghosts drift across the market
and I make some sales. I wondered
what a ghost would do with coffee,
if taste and touch were really
connected.

Hours live on, and fireflies
beat against paper cups
and strong-willed
children.

l on the cooling blacktop
with my friends. The sky is pink
but not as warm as us, and we can see
the stars from here:
I have no
intention on
waking up from today.

Scars morph into smaller divets, like
scratches of clairvoyance against
ancient
oracle bones.

They drive me to an artist in a
city cottage. It’s okay, I am reassured.
She will not hurt you here.
Leaves run down the walls.
Water speaks in some foreign tongue.
I feel oddly safe. We cover up my
prophecy, which was never real to begin with.
Prophecies are a sin, of course. And though
we have transformed from monster to human
and back again
I might be the biggest sinner of them all.

A distasteful monster
hellbent on some
halfway
lack of legacy
to pass on for
generations.

I did cry, I tell myself. But I think we will be okay.
Girl, the demon whispers;
Child, the moon sighs;
Live! They cry.

And Fire says
nothing
from
his place
between our
hearts.