From Cradle to a Moth

with salt upon the wounds of her skin

circles the half mast flag of encrypted muse.

as drags her lungs on burning leg of lamb

so begins the death of passageways and streams;

once bright eyes of damsel in her summer frock

pours upon the heart of the fielded fence of guard

her malted wine for the browning of a crust

for the drowning of the days disparaged lust;

with gifts flown in from craters of the flame

beneath the flesh of sun now burns the tortured worm.

from hand to mouth

from cradle to a moth

so bakes the swollen womb of pregnant broth;

with salt upon the wounds of her skin

where chalks the shaven head on woodland stalk

the whites of eyes pretending to a child

where forks the tongue of twisted lullabies;

how sweet this mother of barley as she sleeps

as weeps the bitterness of her tortured breasts.

from hand to mouth

from cradle to a moth

still bakes the swollen womb of pregnant broth;