The Girl who Cried God

April 11, 2019

1. You said your favourite game was
Playing God, so I let my body
Be Eden, my vagina the Tree of Knowledge.
“Ruin will happen here,” you said.
You eat the fruit.

2. You love creation and claiming
What does not belong to you.
You Christopher Columbus down the
Shores of my body searching
For India, but instead fall asleep
In the bend of my arm
Regaining your strength for the
Pillage that will turn me carcass.

3. You entered my castle and
Renamed it crack house,
Picked a mattress in the corner
And made your bed.
My body stinks of frankincense,
Formaldehyde, and myrrh.

4. Our love is a miscarriage of
Still-born words. We stopped
Trying to imitate Gods after
The maggots came and went,
The garden desolate.

5. I wrap my body around the world
Until calloused hands palm Judea.
How many times can I ask
Forgiveness for the same sin?
I say it again: forgive me Father,
I know of what I do.
I Lazarus,
I smoulder,
Ignite, then
I say it again.

Kylee Bagley

I’ve spent too much time on Dark Google searching out those illicit and very secret Farmers Markets with their cornucopia of forbidden fruits and crisply virgin vegetables. I am, yes, a lost soul –

succulent terms

April 11, 2019

Like every writer, I am clearly tempted to use succulent terms: I have at my command magnificent adjectives, robust nouns, and verbs so agile that they glide through the atmosphere as they move into action. For surely words are actions? Yet I have no intention of adorning the word, for were I to touch the girl’s bread, that bread would turn to gold—and the girl … would be unable to bite into it, and consequently die of hunger.

Clarice Lispector

The hour of the star (A hora da estrela)

grey ruin

April 11, 2019

Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains
Where Power is seated and where Science reigns;
England, the seat of arts, be only known
By the grey ruin and the mouldering stone.

Anna Barbauld

Eighteen Hundred and Eleven