Midweek Poem

the goddess of mice under a talon moon

Your boots at the door
mudded by rite
your skirt on the floor
sodden with night
fresh from the mist
with bramble-writ thigh
nightingale piss
and the owl-dripped cry
of some kin riding claw
to the lintel of nether
defiantly cursing it
feather by feather.

Come whisper her words,
come sing in her stead
come bring the dark here,
unwashed to its bed.

Brush from your hair
websilk and leaf
and loose from your grip
the petals you keep
of the found-by-the-way
and broke-open-wide,
empty your chest
of the stores that you hide
under rib's silent curve
in the hold of your breath.

Spill it all here
as we sway over death
raising a spark
by the beg of our press
a makeshift asylum
where the hunted are blest.