from a slit-and-split throat. speckled with moonlight, shivering against the arms of the forest floor / her voice trips and transforms from the lilt of a bird-song / to a dead girl’s gargle.
not for mercy, but to make mortal men tremble / they wash the very last of her from their teeth / and she speaks no language that has ever passed our animal tongues
her song calls / her body glistens / moon-song, word of the wicked / devil-speak, words of the burbling stream /and thundering oceans / the flutter of the fiscal’s crumbling wings / flame and the flesh it consumes – the goddess sings
and we listen.
– t. bennett