zoë fairweather
At ten years old I
vanquished death
under a cackling storm
and in pitch
black darkness.
His hand was clammy
and bulbous and blooming.
Mine were
frozen solid and crusted in gold.
I flushed him in the fire and released my
honey tears.
When the reaper
simmered and sizzled and sank in silence
I was then brought back to earth.
This earth where my
father forever
called me marvelous.
This earth where my
mother’s lapse in memory
was insignificant.
This earth where my
skin ceases heating
and the loss of life
flees from inside my eyes.
A full moon had phased when
I fell ill.
Drowning in night sweats,
steeped in stench.
I would sooner sink in
with the worms who counted their time with kiwi,
then be eulogized by
those I’ve loved or thought I’ve loved.
I lost love for the givers.
I lost blood for the takers.
I was more worm than woman when
the young lovers trampled my nose.
Without water I
thrived
in pain
but never erupted.