Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. Isaiah 5:20
The words are small black spirals
delicate and strong
pegged up neatly on clothesline
like dead birds in a witch’s angry spell
they move no more
cold, dead, bitter, strange
their luminescence has drained out
long fingers pluck their flesh
they are empty hulls
waiting
fill them
invisible liquid soaks their cracked cold skin
they bulge, fill, flatten, bloat
soft curves become taut points
Each knife thrust bends
they are strung out in black, familiar patterns
they are still strange.
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