Inscribed in Always

In a 3 a.m. vision, a black fox, grotesquely missing his left eye, holds my gaze with a warning. Witch Mother is not quite done with me yet.

Blueberry pie for dinner. October gushes and pours all it has into my balloon heart.

She wrote, “...our unfurnished eyes” and it is then I knew I had mistaken the woman for a poet. For indeed, the poet was firstly, a woman.

Write your body and then, write it again. I strip in front of the mirror and the lesson compounds itself.

A dark green sweater against my red hair. Desire says I cannot win unless I stop playing the game.

Marriage as patriarchy. Pussy as property.

Eve reminds you that she herself is a “threat to the family.” Snakes and elephants and bears, oh my!

My body and songs – a beauty no longer forbidden, for this goddess was inscribed in always. The scent of our river is still in my hair; the distance between our lips is still missing.

Oh to usher your sleep! Our rest.

The truth is, it is not my body that attends. However, the taste of apples does indeed make October different than the other ways of tasting October.