chthonian woman

smooth as subterranean bones, safe from sunlight, methodically cleansed by nightcrawling friends

almost untouched– almost, darling, there’s an imprint

there, on your collar, from a thumb. there’s lines on

your wrists that remember a dead grip from the man

who ran away with your father’s gun

you cornered the king and checked him with your pawn, 

and though your fingers have oft felt the little cross between them

you’ve never felt like you've won

you know that the green fields rolling on in all directions

were once blue, once red and black and on fire, and you carry that close to your skin, which was once cellular 

crimson, globulous, murky, multifarious, what a miracle it was to leave as a denizen of yourself 

so easily you could’ve become a clot, a knot, a mass of old blood, toxic shock

stuck in the old red of ahab’s vengeful mouth

You’ll never forgive either of them, I know, not the bodies that were once homes and not your own

wagging your fingers at your own cells for trading flesh for bone 

the sheer mass of it, the upkeep, worth double its weight in gold, how heavy- how useless

for all but rings and crosses, dearest, no matter how rare your eyes or hair or smile

no matter how preciously formed- you are only bright and shining 

and the whole world is full of crows