The glass in my veins
still remembers white sand.
Gold-stopped, the head of Crassus
lolls beneath the raft of the filling station,
a reliquary of fossil greed.
Sonya Taaffe
The glass in my veins
still remembers white sand.
Gold-stopped, the head of Crassus
lolls beneath the raft of the filling station,
a reliquary of fossil greed.
Lady whose name I cannot translate,
of heavens and chariot wheels
rolling out the signature of war,
give me enough to see this huntingβs end:
the unhorsed king, the lion at his throat.
I have drunk so long from this bowl of pomegranates,
dry and bloodied as a broken heart.
The rod flowered and its petals were flames.
Author: Sonya Taaffe
Sonya Taaffeβs short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in As the Tide Came Flowing In (Nekyia Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of Hyphens, A Mayse-Bikhl, Ghost Signs, and the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores. She writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper Belt object.
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Photo credit: Rob Noyes
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