The highly talented and lusciously edible Juliet Cook has written a poem for me. Huzzah!
for Rachel Kendall
You forage for gorgeous dead flowers,
prettily decaying off their stems. Infested
moss grows on mouse bones. Bird beaks
cling to skeletal remains. You caress
a decadent wick; charm a snake
until it exudes this mesmerizing perfume:
–violet pastilles and burnt lace
–mounds of dilapidated doll meat
–acrid tinge of mons venus heat
It skitters like spider feet when you rip open
the black tasseling that sewed your servant girl’s lips into a snarl
until you were ready for her to speak. Now she’s your silk-lined clutch
with her decorative beading. Her knotty maw. Her rotten zinnias bleeding.
You fill her raw mouth-hole with a dark purple votive. You make her drip
violet wax when she whimpers. You make her flicker through your hall
of antique mirrors, then use her flame to plant a scorching kiss
into the furrowed scalp of your dirty manikin head.
Dark tendrils steam and writhe from the root beds.
For more of Juliet’s poetry check out Sein und Werden, both online and in print – ALL issues, including the most recent – Artifice:
Read an interview with her poetessness here: