BY jessamyn duckwall
no one around to
tell me not to, i lowered
a hand into your waters—the candles
all black and smelling of rust.
who wears white today?
the sun trickles down for us.
felt there a going-dusky something
beneath the redness of it all,
what’s there to be moon-like about?
and who drinks the wine?
emmenagogue your touch
nearly sickens.
who walks the moss-carpet passages,
pennyroyal seething on the tongue?
bitterness of wormwood,
angelica, henbane in the bride’s
bouquet—what’s it mean
to bloom when the wild weeds
spill over the edge of
the shadows, swallow
the hen-house hidden in the ribs?
jessamyn duckwall (they/she) is a queer, autistic poet from Oregon. When not writing, they enjoy reading tarot cards and talking to plants and mushrooms. They hold an MFA in poetry from Portland State University, and their work has appeared in Occulum Journal, Old Pal Magazine, Josephine Quarterly, and Radar Poetry, among other publications.