Author: Angie Harrison

I abide summers that twist

amid your wild briar coverts,

and immense evenings

that blossom like a red bruise.

 

As you shudder flesh into

flesh in underbrush, a raven

is loosed on the world. Feel

my heart drum within.

 

Children, cover yourselves

with leaves and come

into the garden whose moon

ignites the skin with pale fire.

 

Apple trees hiss words

in starlight, our bones repeat

what they say: dance together,

sinuous in tall grass.

On the face of the dark

water, woman’s white form

(curved as the first

gull-wing would be curved

and both foam-carved)

moved in orbits, gravid

with gods and starmilk

searching welcoming shore.

 

And here: where the land

reached to catch her feet,

these white tracks, three-petalled.

At full moon, fat

and pale as a pearl,

I enter the hut.

 

Drums beat a slow

throb beneath my belly,

dark circles the drains

 

of my eyes. I’m stuffed

full of sickness, hidden

from trees; the eaves house

 

a raven’s croak, the smell

of blood. The moon

magnetizes, twists my back—

 

I am her puppet, laid flat.

We bed down together.

The sun should burn

 

me to ash, barren as she.

For five days I hang

between earth and sky,

 

feeding on gravity alone.

The crops keep their roots.