Mother Said: Fat. Retarded. Demon. (Throw 2/3 Away)

Before your wedding,

Sister Mine, let us go

to the tearing juncture

where Bacchae meet the Bard.

I, streaked crimson, have learned

to sheathe the knife.

You, mesmer moon, huntress

and mom-to-be, may

do anything and everything

with the sweet, spying Youth

who approaches and is Horned.


Mimir’s Well (The Hanging Man Is You)

No one guards the well

Or took an eye.

There seemed no price

Until my father frowned

And said: I’m your Dad.


I don’t know what that means.

I don’t know what it means

To me.  It is a burden

I pick up or set aside

As I please.  Except—


Except for the trickle

Of language, remembered

Sweetness, which sustains me

And succors me.  Rejuvenated, I

Still wonder: what price

For a drink?


Allfather hangs upon a tree.