smakkabagms:

autumn, darkwood
nighthag, swoop down
deft on bitter wings 

the garden of my heart’s black swan has been
wrung by the neck, unfleshed as the bone
from a woman’s cage

her hands have finished their
ceaseless kneading, if only to pause
for a moment          over the ancient waste

of her silence – stilling as the moon’s blush 
    does, sore with a hunter’s knife, murder
and clenched pale hands in death

autumn, all crimson, wet us our arrows
in the Other’s wound – I want to unlearn

the world

to keen and wail for the depths of it
buried, unburied, forgotten