By the oven (Plathsong).
Scarr C.

And I had sworn by the writhing
carnivorous slime of your worlds, the bent nibs,
the nails of your thousand million souls scrabbling pathways
and portraits, each one a slain vessel of pregnant testaments

each one "the road less traveled".

They have smothered me with marriage bed pillows, fucked
me slowly, thudding and lightwicked like
the secret unwarbled song of a
dryad. Gorging myself breathless
in the fire-dreams of your black and mottled red,

blue, moon-coloured even.

-I slither,
naked in them, smelling sun burnt skin
and dead fetuses' breath
brittle and beautiful in their wake.