the crow’s canticle hollowing out the cruel dark wet grass of me
november hills are run with wolves, the orphanhood of a woman-bodyI have hung the starry pelts above the flame, I have hunted my own otherness
Artemis-pale in the autumn woods, flaxen over cronelike cults of waterI have parted my lips where the moon meets with wine-red sea, froth
and annihilation; a thin blue thread I have parted and dispersed into nowhere’s illusionto say the unsayable; the sad, child longing to be beautiful; the long dizzy
silk dream that is ever unreconciled – things I cannot admit to being minewho I have been – or am – as myself: the one who holds her tongue
and waits for words to die
