On Fenrir
A demon, you say? A boy with blank
eye sockets and lips of fire-restless
words tumble from his flower of a mouth;
I think Ashbery talked about this in some
helium light manner, and Blake in his
heavy, fleshy way.
See, all the poets warned me
but I used no discretion:
Split up the middle, I ate every seed and became
Persephone. I drank blood oaths,
the sun feeling more empty with each sip-
My tongue flashed wetly across Heaven.
A spectre without punctuation, blue and frozen
in half dead thought-light pours down
through the grave-
the dirt was not packed down tightly as hoped.
On the streets, we blush, squawking awkwardly
of trite matters in public like a mask we take
off in the hours the sky is made of charcoal.
I will shine a dull brass if you will be
Fenrir; promise to devour my small sliver
of daylight? Substitute words for alcohol, I
haven't eaten in days: preoccupation
Chasing Ghosts.
"On Fenrir"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
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