Mourgana of the Fey

Letter to a narcissist

 

I was never a spy

in your house of love

rather here 

in this room of death

 

where the heirs

have carboard ears

filled with

amplified whispers

 

circulating orbs

flickering light

reflects

I hold a wake

beside emptied

dark green bottles

 

eros still rattles

our broken bones

hisses through

absinthine ash

 

you are my martyr

I have become

a shrined concubine

 

dancing tightropes

towards the music

of his knuckles

 

each origami pattern

violet violence

brings turmeric

twilight

 

where we mimed our love

gestating beech mothers

hold out their arms

 

if we close our eyes

how then can pain

ask for forgiveness

 

praying mantis

I ask of you

upon each tendril

trauma escapes

 

we will never learn

to trust an eagle

how to listen

through the antlers

 

of

a

deer