The keeper who took my voice promised to lock it into a wooden box until it has been properly reviewed. Still, if a good word comes back, I might not recognize it.
We walked there in the twilight and sang skysongs
Our bodies were translucent and full of darkness
How we carried our homeland in our bones
The executioners grill letters and sigils
into every corporal surface,
black butterflies on her nails,
a sponsor, fingers curling like locks of hair
on her head,
ink paintings on her eyes.
One day she herself ripened,
swelling with the demon’s child.
Twelve months she grew and grew,
rounder than a pumpkin.
How can I acknowledge your things of whiteness
mine? Born too late for never-setting empires
On their third date, Pandora began to open up.