Vox Populi
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Leonore Wilson: Adder
Little duende of pith and phlegm
in the emery winds
rustling like mountain shadows
through water,
leaving your eggshell cavities
murmurous
while the ground below
turns to dust and the air blooms
with smoke;
whose earth is it,
beast,
lonely disciple —
what exegesis of the heart
did you prophesize;
what blood red catacombs
above our heads
when the heavens
opened?
Why is love so insistent
so urgent, why am I called,
from numbness
to knowing;
veil, hood, mask
I have nothing to protect me;
the fire came,
the decadent flames
slowly inched forward
like an infant crawling feet first
down a steep flight
of stairs;
is this how my novella ends--
some elderly new future
against the black particles
as if they were wafers of glass
from the body of Christ;
how do I disentangle
myself from lightning,
the last dashed
embers…
Copyright 2021 Leonora Wilson
Leonore Wilson lives in Napa, California. Her work has appeared in many periodicals, including Quarterly West, Iowa Review and Terrain.org.
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Vipera berus (wikimedia)
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