Pre-History

Pre-History

I will never come home
to babies –
carriages of little moons
with fine hair.

I have made peace
with Daddy,
have known
the silver leash of love.

My body –
​its soft history grown softer still.

There is snow in my room
a broken faucet
old mirrors on opposing walls.

You have seen me hung
with pearls
in a slow boat across the Lethe.

Look
deeper
still

My remedy:
soot and steel
knucklebones
sad fragments from the sea.

You wish to know me
call me mistress​ prophet
an inconvenient queen

to harness my tongue
(cautious commander)
and get me
on my knees.

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