by Johanna May
Exact year of birth unknown.
Might have been the year dragonflies
were decapitated, insect-legs pulled out
fed to its own famished head.
Nevertheless she was born,
milk-teethed on Baldung’s
Death and the Maiden.
Torn, maiden under the hood,
all good. She proved useful
during the shampoo-less years,
she could peel noises and gives
only of the fruit of its rustlings.
Saved me from fears,
the darling little beastling.
t’was her heart trampled, never mine,
her choice of revelries
wakes me up in strange bedrooms
of unholy mien or naked-drunk
in some somewhere.
I am her most persistent killer.
This fervent chantepleure,
I whisper to her sleeping, as to a ghost
‘begone, I am no longer a house
fit for haunting.’
Author's Note: death by rainbow sprinkles
Posted on 01/07/2013
Copyright © 2021 Johanna May