Ode to Ecchymosis (In Name)

The feeling that makes candles bow

where webs of silvery spiders

lay their eggs

Pulling away in long

invisible strands

Humming as their offspring burrow

To push on it and remember

the clipped wings of an 

imaginary griffin

The mummified childrens’ books

White and black and beige and tan

Broken lines of infinity singing

in the desperate air

A nest of pooled blood, pulsing

against the skin shrouded

in a thinly veiled membrane

Pour sugar, pour salt


the vile tongues

the people in the room

Death and his victors thrumming against bone

To linger and wander

striking under the false attacker

There it forms, sometimes in lumps

growing and breathing and consuming

To have it eat,

to have it eat

More, they say


Rip the threads from the beggar

The soul trapped in honey

Strike down the celestial stars

until they split the earth

Pull down the sun until

all that’s left is

black and blue

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