Lysbeth Benkert

Cassandra

Cassandra

 

 

In

spiring.

 

Breathing

you

in.

 

Filling myself up

through

spiracles

and

spinning

out

song

from the darkest

chirrup

corners

chirrup

in which

chirrup

I dwell.

 

Each word

is a spark—

an ember blown up fiery against the dark sky

 

—smoke and mirrors—

 

the slow blossom

of color

swirling through thick liquid,

 

captured in the

wobbly lens of amber memory.

 

The Words are larger than myself.

Their fire bursts forth tearing my pores,

charring my bones,

the chemical catalyst of my flesh

metamorphosed utterly

into its former self.

 

The breath of gods is inhaled only as an immolation,

and exhaled

only

as a terrible

silence.