Mimicry
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
reach
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.
