393 Readings | 2 Ratings

Near the End of Autumn

I am tripping through brambles. I hack and tear at branches.
Thorns interrogate my thighs. My bleeding
proves my innocence. I cannot be a witch.
No. I am a bramble. I am made
of braids and tangles, of blackberries and radio static.
I am a blister that will soon give birth
to a worm that will wind itself
around my mother’s walking-stick.
She will not grow wings. I refuse
to be repaired. I am proud
to wear my shattered seaglass donkeyskin.
I am a miscegenated mongrel,
half polecat and half satellite.
I am building a god out of the brambles.
I am twisting them together,
knitting a grisly homunculus
whom I will burn on an altar
in the observatory I wove out of rabbit hairs.
I look out from the observatory,
half expecting to see a hoary turtle looking back,
but only see the inside of my own trepanned skull.

Stay up late with me, my love,
and listen to the wolves and the buzzing electrical wires.
Posted 12/18/10
Comments (0)
Would you like to leave a comment on this profile? Join Ink Node for a free account, or sign in if you are already a member.