We built our house in the faery ring
then are aghast when the changelings steal from our cribs.
Mewling and keening, there was never any baby here.
And there is us, with our love brick heavy,
twice as deadly to their swamp wood skulls.
Kissing like smashing bottles,
fucking so hard the Domovoi cower, watching their offering moulder
as we devour each other.
The ghosts can never tell if the walls are bleeding
One night there is a scratch on the glass, the windows turn to agate
and the gales begin to moan your name.
I am left.
Me, with my cameo face, will o’ the wisp eyes and voice like a banshee.
Bad things follow.
There I found you in a clearing, bloodied axe and righteous toque
in the same red as my hair.
I want to wrap you in the roots of trees and feed you poisoned apples until you love me
Cook up the mushroom of our ring and
don’t blame the shoddy mycology for your sickness-
It is a fault with your ancestors.
Curse me with it and remember how the thunder clapped when we made love
in that storm we conjured with the force of our hips
(Before the Wendigo hid you- standing sideways in the snow)
I can bear it
until I change
I'm an American poet living in Wales and no taller than an oyster shell. When not complaining about the weather, I can be found willing plants to grow, falling asleep in the greenhouse, or drinking entirely too much coffee. If you see me I will probably try to talk about ghosts or how my cat snores like an old lady.