George Korolog

Edgemoor Gardens 1958

The bloodied residue of hapless fig and lemon,

carefully infused with vodka and left

alone to dream, she says, builds character.

With her, caution breaks with time

and secrets stick to stories, scorched edges,

like tired nicotine stains between your fingers.

She says that she is going to love you

when she knows the real you,

and you curl like a tensed spring under the bed

waiting for yourself to show up.

Who did this thing?  Who filled the world

with these pained echos, shards of gin

and vomit winding its way into your heart?

Is the darkness in me too?

30 May 1431

Burn her. Tear out her tongue. Shadowy hooded magicians cough rites. Spittle of caste and chief.  Brushwood sage.  Screams pronounce the roasted aires.  Toes churning in excrement. Sweat dripping from clouds. Recite mysteries.  Beg forgiveness. Scratch signs with charred and crooked sticks.  Grimace. Teeth crack. Hearts roar. Hands blaze.  Souls rage. Eyes melt. Cremation ends. The gift Godsends is ashen shrine.

George Korolog © 2011