Taste the Shawl

The cold weather,
this vein problem sticks to tender demon tedious,
as he rocks in grandmother’s chair–
grandmother’s chair built from
her funereal elegance,
Victorian skin–
withered attention.

He sings smooth soliloquy in tongues
fluid with sick vapors,
targeting the words which made her famous in this–
argued death of ruffled Cholera,
Polio projection of what ailed her.

key girlVenomous behemoth suckles cherries
of crimson persuasion,
bloodied from the floor by the front door–
these puddles smolder with sin,
smugglings from the soil
to build her bones of succulent calcium,
mourner’s focus of erosion.

Grains and curses of scattered bloody somethings violate purposefully
the air of cannibal crumblings,
obedient prescription mumblings of overdone hunger–
charred to the core of corpse cryings
as he rocks in grandmother’s chair,
grandmother’s chair built from graveyard hair–
and licks his lips to taste the shawl.

By Brittany Warren


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