by | September 5, 2020



She stoops 

to worship Mimicry,

old, borrowed and 

belly-full of 

what has already been


                      the start and end 


of ideas. She rewrites

Genesis with a stale bible; 

a tea-ringed, deadened 

flower press,

flecked with aged 

blossom. Her pen


fixes on an 

Upturned Adonis,

sets on 

pale dreams which won’t bruise, on

words that will never 


                             breach walls 


with a bright birth. 

She burns life into dust.

She makes it glow 

with more light than the Tuesdays 

she spent with her love

and His loveless lines,


                              whose start and end


are pages mocked in her mind.

Those amniotic sheets




for a space in an afterlife, 


an afterlife crowded with

old laws and flawed logic:


Her lips drink the blue milk of Muses;

Her tongue,

                       that bronze length of language,


Is statuesque, then flaming, 

then arthritic.

Her mind deals in double deaths:

                                 Her memory in mitosis.


Words by Catherine Cibulskis, art by Sasha LâCombe.