The birds against the clouds, their flapping sounds like snapping wires

As children we played with                 – never 
seeing them in the mirrored faces of 

our parents, returned home – No
I have returned, calling            ghosts bring back

cornfields & moons –         Didn’t we used to play?
I stood over     (memory has worn into glass) 

grass bodies of rabbits 
                        plotting cold, bending the road home

like a knee                                                      & mice
in a field mice in the graves we dug mice in the eyes

we’d wave our arms as in SOS 
away from the cats           but the cornfield

we brought with us –                          what’s left

of the house? what have we
conjured? We’ve conjured up Mother’s rooster

we’ve carried the moon’s light –

O dark what we buried. O animal bones.
Our bones on theirs                 who whispers dirt-

deep asking how we could be so cruel? O
          singing dark – for what we love. 

                                         II. 

Listen to the dead. We can get you 
                            there from here     (a dark space 

and forgotten – we)    in the place      where dead mice 
                            are just 
dead mice. 

You have returned home to un-
bury us. Home with its bent knee & cold

dirt in the fur. Home with its flick 
                           of hair like white rabbits. In our flanks 

secrets. In your hips, men
crying
in your skin, animal bones, your memories –

ghosts in
                           the cornfield            & searching.

Stephanie Bryant Anderson

 

Make room

August 19, 2017

Ask to be sure

August 19, 2017

Just the thing for lunch

August 19, 2017

Every boy should have one

August 19, 2017

Fragments of madness

August 19, 2017

19th August

Mood: Feckin’ intense, but kind of blue.

Fact: No woman ever had an orgasm while scrubbing the floor.

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Female witches take their power from the earth – which is why men fear them so much! They can raise such terrible enchantment from out of the earth and weave it into spells without corrupting, polluting or poisoning the soil.

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You may not have seen it but there is a forest growing inside me. It is huge and dark and filled with frightening things.

I love the sea. The sound of the waves on wind-stripped rocks. The salty smell – which is the smell of memory for me.

Walking in the morning mist. It’s a white veil of breath surrounding us. We find our way by instinct, passing the twisted shapes of gorse and a thin tree. We see the lighted windows of the farmhouse ahead, dim as old lamplight. Often, walking in the mist like this, you are overcome by a feeling of someone / something following you. An irrational feeling, of course…

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We’ve received over twenty positive responses to our “Erotic World of Faery” party invites so far. It’s going to be a grand night!