Katherine Meikle

Your venomlingers in my veins

and for nowit still hurts, only for now.

But soon itwill turn to gold

Kintsugicutting through my brilliantskin

glowing,

immune.

All my gildededges

reflecting inthe soft evening light.

theglistening gloss on my lips

the sway of myhips,

shiftingunder my satin dress.

I do confess,

I’mhappy. 

You’re nomatch for my alchemy.

Turning thepain you gave me into

somethingclean,

somethingmine.

A millionmiles away from you

It feels sogood

not caringwhat you do.

After suchlong nights wide eyed and worried

wondering,

when you’ddecide to come home to me.

I’m finallyfree.

At some pointyou seemed to make up your mind about 

who youthought I was;

Smart enoughto laugh at your

dumb jokes,

interestingenough to summarize to your friends,

with somequaint little hobbies floating around

in thebackground

of yourdistance.

Cute, butnever gorgeous.

Quiet, yetstill crude enough to bother you.

And thefleeting few

times youtried to ‘charm’  me

only exposedhow little you knew.

And then… youstopped trying.

Yourcuriosity dying

with the lastof my patience.

I am morethan you could ever know.

More than youcould jot down in your

mental notesapp,

more thanyour flaccid mind 

could tap.

And even as Ispeak

I finallybegin to peek

under theveil you cast upon me.

I am alanguage you can’t read,

I am anartifact buried deep,

A RosettaStone

of flesh andbone,

you

could never touchme.

I weave mywisdom into words,

my swan songinto songbirds,

my millionpaper cuts

a scarletthread,

spun into a dazzlingcoat

of courage,and of hope.

I will wearit everywhere.

All my gildededges

reflectingeven the lowest light,

the shimmerof my soul

theglistening glass on my eyes

my thighs,

shiftingunder my satin dress.

I mustconfess, I’m happy.

2024

You close your eyes like ginkgo leaves

Smile at the sky

Cry at the trees.

And every time you think of me

I’m in the changing of the breeze.

Let the spring inside

The quiet of your mind

Step into the rapture

Slip out of time

Skin, a silken membrane

All the dew that it contains

Back to the ground with your remains.

2022

As the letters unfold

and the dust, and the cold

and old, old bakers wife

with cataracts on her teeth

makes sausages with meat that the dogs won't eat.

In the house with the grown man crying in the bathroom

and the lame horse that nobody wants to shoot

and the shame, and the games

that the children play,

as they run over the poppies they didn't know were planted

with the seeds of soldiers marrow.

2018

March your bitten fingers

along my décolletage.

February feels

colder this year.

Very nearly almost

dead.

A kiss, a shot,

to the back of my neck.

Warm me up.

Breathe your smoke into

the hollows of my throat.

Skin so thin,

those scapulae like dorsal fins,

nearly breaking the surface of your flesh.

Indigo veins, invertebrate ink,

a bruise, a plume,

of  black dye in water

clear as Venetian glass.

I want to touch that skin, that

living latex.

How can something so slim restrain all that–?

Water. Blood.

The pressure of its plasma

pulsing, palpitating

for escape.

Unspool the thread,

let it seep out slowly.

Bead it with scarlet gems, rubies

are Nature’s currency.

A slice, a taste,

a vent to ease the burden.

You are opaque.

The crimson current

drained from your cadaver,

now rests upon my tongue,

my hands,

my Crest white teeth. 

2017