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She is come hither horrific:
form of the plague, form in the grass, thistle, nettle, widow’s lace pressed between pages, words cast afloat like boats without oars. now I lay me down to sleep. The stench of her sex-- eyelet, slit—where, O of her mouth, she disappears you. cavern, well. I pray the lord my soul to keep. her lips pressed to the curve of your chest, a prayer you recite for lack of air. should I die before I wake, She traces the baby bones at the base of your throat. night breaks over her back; your world goes black. pray the lord my soul to take. You’re emptied into an unlit hollow: knotweed, pigwort, choke cherry. Say her name. Spit it out.
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Maria McLeodMaria McLeod writes poetry, fiction, monologues, and plays—three of which have been performed on stage. Honors include three Pushcart Prize nominations and the Indiana Review Poetry Prize. Originally from the Detroit area, she resides in Bellingham, Wash., where she is an associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University. |
