Thyris Sepulchralis

by Julia Amber

the bulb burns but such is the price
for wings and for final relief
dulled hair stuck to throat
five-finger shadow curling wrist
flower weeps sick nectar
Girl is god and he is religion pulling at Her threads 
the butcher’s blade to the fowl’s neck
child is fat and the sweat reeks
seven inches of carbon steel
wet from the catch he threw down on the kitchen table 
finger hooked in cheek
cracked windowpane
white-knuckled around the hilt
plutonic processional
She and I
sweeping headlong for a lucent oblivion
further still and further

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