widows, ghosts and lovers sit and sing
in the dark, arched marrow of me
in the dark, arched marrow of me
A
wolfpack does not linger at the belly of their kill to howl at the moon. Their hunger makes of them a satiated and lazy thing when all their violence has been spent and poured into the earth like water. Their second song, the second sonnet of a eulogy, settles easily into silence when their eyes turn to butterflies instead of moon-shards trapped in a skull. Danaë settles with them as their violence drowns every ounce of fearlessness from the music. She had tasted the weight of it in the air, grown fat with it, fluttered her eyes until they were butterflies instead of blood moon-shards. A spore turns to blossom in her chest and the lions take their claws from the flesh of her liver. The wolves tuck down into the chambers of her heart as if it is not life but a cave buried in the middle of the forest.
Her blade does not need to drink.
Tonight.
But tomorrow, as she taps it against her sister’s hip, they will run and run through the dunes until every monster buried in the sand feels the endlessness of her sister’s hunger in their dreams. Tomorrow they will not listen to music cut out like a gut in the moonlight but sand-storms, and whispers of hawks crying in the distant canyons.
Tomorrow it will not be in the world of mortal men that they linger but in the cradles of gods.
And next time, there will be no tomorrow to stave them off and no music for their violence to feast upon. Next time there will only be unicorns and all the things that are not.
Her steps, as she walks towards the desert lit only by the gathering of moonlight of her skin, will not be the lingering echo of the gutted music. Tomorrow, and all the days after that, will hear only a roar from dull thud of her hooves when she walks until limestone becomes sand.
{ closing up some of her lingering threads "speaks" notes: <3
