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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