then the moment—
a silent shift only known
by the way the frost fell
from limb to deep bed
down & death
my riddle shivered from
the withered apples
little skulls, clutched, glimpsing
of crusty crimson
in the dead arms of
mother dear
the bow breaks—
aw. the cradle falls
these little skulls
of once robust spring to summer
to fall. oh to fall.
red bedded on supple white
brides & bosoms & cherries
quite contraries
echoing those bedtime story faeries
princes don't save
they storm
they concur
their own self worth
a string around the fingers
cat's cradle & poof! silver spoon
that little boy blew, & blew, & blew
and by the whiskers
of his chinny chin-chin
he made you
belong to only him
YOU ARE READING
Ice on My Lashes
PoetryCan I give you words-the kind that sting & kiss, both at once. As does this storm, fiercely blowing at the leaves within your belly, green and supple to the tongue. Can I give you, what was torn, from my slaughtered gut? -The Cold Prose of Winter...
