I don’t know when this disease became me,
the raven at my vein devoured all crumbs,
and I die a little when stars burst
like fireworks in hallowed hollows
where my eyes used to be.
Hunger prowls my leather – a parasite,
intoxicates my lips to bloom
the siren call of my infection.
I watch the wicked one broil in baited skies
coax a lightning strike with my forked tongue;
a stunning kiss, invoking welts
to rise like Lazarus,
etches a charcoal wreath in my timber.
He traces the ley-lines home,
follow Chernobyl’s glow – rising
angelic to carry me over the threshold
to yesterday, tomorrow miscarriage
suckles as a baby at my breast.
And specters of a legerdemain
howl a diagnosis and a cure
from the mausoleum of my mind.
We wash in the anguish of our fever,
write Grimm narratives in broken English,
my limbs forming love letters he punctuates, a fistful at a time,
until bones no longer mend.
©Copyright Maggie Lawson 2018