Bough Paperback
A feature-length poem written in rhyme and the cadence of a song. It tells of a tree, one that gives, one that takes and the people who worship it. A haunting folkloric myth of devotion, sacrifice, and the quiet power of what grows in the dark recesses of corrupted faith.
They press their hands to bark like bone, where something breathes beneath the stone.
A mouth of marrow, slick and wide, a god, a groom, a wretched bride.
The queens, with bellies split and swayed, are fed to roots in milk and shade.
Their fingers twitch, their skin unseams, as life is poured through amber streams.
The men, unmade, with hollow hips, sing hymns through bloody, cracking lips.
No seed, no blood, no gift of bone, just hands to serve the swelling throne.
The tree uncoils, the tree bestows, its limbs a web, thick with throes.
It drinks, it gives, it hums and grieves, it makes, unmakes, and never leaves.
And when the queens can swell no more, their husks are hung from boughs before
The next are draped in bridal thread, to kiss the bark, to wed the dread.
A feature-length poem written in rhyme and the cadence of a song. It tells of a tree, one that gives, one that takes and the people who worship it. A haunting folkloric myth of devotion, sacrifice, and the quiet power of what grows in the dark recesses of corrupted faith.
They press their hands to bark like bone, where something breathes beneath the stone.
A mouth of marrow, slick and wide, a god, a groom, a wretched bride.
The queens, with bellies split and swayed, are fed to roots in milk and shade.
Their fingers twitch, their skin unseams, as life is poured through amber streams.
The men, unmade, with hollow hips, sing hymns through bloody, cracking lips.
No seed, no blood, no gift of bone, just hands to serve the swelling throne.
The tree uncoils, the tree bestows, its limbs a web, thick with throes.
It drinks, it gives, it hums and grieves, it makes, unmakes, and never leaves.
And when the queens can swell no more, their husks are hung from boughs before
The next are draped in bridal thread, to kiss the bark, to wed the dread.
A feature-length poem written in rhyme and the cadence of a song. It tells of a tree, one that gives, one that takes and the people who worship it. A haunting folkloric myth of devotion, sacrifice, and the quiet power of what grows in the dark recesses of corrupted faith.
They press their hands to bark like bone, where something breathes beneath the stone.
A mouth of marrow, slick and wide, a god, a groom, a wretched bride.
The queens, with bellies split and swayed, are fed to roots in milk and shade.
Their fingers twitch, their skin unseams, as life is poured through amber streams.
The men, unmade, with hollow hips, sing hymns through bloody, cracking lips.
No seed, no blood, no gift of bone, just hands to serve the swelling throne.
The tree uncoils, the tree bestows, its limbs a web, thick with throes.
It drinks, it gives, it hums and grieves, it makes, unmakes, and never leaves.
And when the queens can swell no more, their husks are hung from boughs before
The next are draped in bridal thread, to kiss the bark, to wed the dread.