Red On The Lathe

The hem of her dress touched his coffin,

red on the lathe;

we must put the sickle to her throat.

A newborn died, pox of demon bites,

the cry stilled,

her mother shows signs of scorn.

Her crimson hair grows still, ruddy,

chalk is a blood sign,

pretty as daylight in the starry veil.

Black beans in her mouth, turn her head,

no more dead, no more.

Iron is fire is pure will keep her down.

Maybe ashes float to heaven, old days.

She is turned back.

A daughter’s cry. God no!


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