THERE’S IRON IN HER BLOOD

 

Witchery she rests.

Through her, centuries of uncompromising bodies

marched

unwieldy, abrupt, unapologetic. Owners with no owner rights

leaving her

tears of blazing sunshine

sheathing the polluted earth around her, hiding the footsteps that

entered her choking with each penetrating step

no shame

 

She is visited for her hot, wet, depths of sweet pleasure,

Her vacuous dark, by

Antiheros compelled to measure her labyrinths of

vermillion and

flame

To feel the

veins pumping life to‪ the heather, the ivies and the birch

unable to turn their gaze away.

 

She wails, the exodus of cardinal reds burst open as she rips. Precious

It cannot go to waste. This labour of rape.

 

I taste my blood, caked on my skin, the draught

Out of place

It tastes hot, wet, vacuous like the brain he owned.

My tears not yellow, but cardinal red

No shame. I am the sheath and the ore.