The Elegy Of Maladies

04/06/2026

02/06/2026

No feeding on wisteria. No pitch-burner traipsing
In the nettled woods. No milk in metal cylinders, no
Buttering. No making small contusions on the page
But saying nothing no one has not said before.
No milkweed blown across your pony-coat, no burrs.
No scent of juniper on your Jacobean mouth. No crush
Of ink or injury, no lacerating wish.
                                              Extinguish me from this.
I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost
And flickering in unison with all the other fireflies in
   Appalachia,
Blinking in the swarm of it, and all at once, above
And on a bare branch in a shepherd's sky. No Dove.

29/05/2026

28/05/2026

I am only yours when you’re not looking at me.
When you do look, I try to belong to someone else.
​The only real danger is the imitation of the imitation.
If you fall in love with her, she’s a decoy for me. Meaning,
​she’s all of me except for me. My necro-crystal sister,
I’m a decoy of a woman. A poor symbol. Rapid decoy decay.
​I refuse to enter my body into the system of language
where you write me next to every other woman you’ve met.
​I’m a champagne slit. You cannot drink. The ice age
between us, within. Enigmatic megafauna. Molten come
​lava. If you really can’t touch me, I’ll be fine. The safest place
to drink in this town is the church bushes. Don’t ask me
​how I know that. But if you see me there keep walking.