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  • Chloe Myers

Battle-axe

I READ ONCE THAT 3 AM WAS WITCHING HOUR.


WATCH OUT FOR THAT ODDLY SPECIFIC COLD BREEZE,

A SLOW BREATH OF SAW DUST,


SCURRYING TO THE SURFACE FOR AIR.

IT WILL CHOKE YOU AND CURL UP BY THE FIRE,

AS IF IT NEVER LEFT.

IT WILL MAKE A HOME IN YOUR BELLY AND

WAIT TO BE CHARMED OUT.


SERPENT LIKE,

CUNNING IN ITS WAYS OF OLD.

IT WILL SLITHER UP YOUR THROAT AND DANCE AROUND YOUR TONGUE IF YOU LET IT.

IN MY PONDERANCE

I WONDER IF IT REALLY IS THAT VICIOUS.

IF IT’S THE TOWERING FRIGHT I WAS LED TO BELIVE IN

WHY DOES IT CLING TO EARTH?

WHY DOES IT LONG TO TREAD SOIL?

TO FEEL LINGERING RAINDROPS FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE IN BETWEEN ITS TOES?

IN ITS PERSONIFICATION,

I TELL MYSELF NOT TO BE SCARED OF IT.

REJECT OLD WIVES TALES THAT TARNISH MEMORY AND MUDDY ITS WATERS.


SING IN TONGUES,

LISTEN TO A JOYFUL NOTE BURN ITSELF OUT.


REMEMBER TO TELL MY DAUGHTERS TO NOT WINCE WHEN SPARKS CATCH THEIR ANKLES,


UNTIL I FEEL THE WARM COMFORT OF 4 AM.

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