the mother of knives

has a flashing tongue
of cutpurse silver, her
throat is a well, the kiss of sugar

she is garlanded in such terrible roses
as are the heads of men
such flowers bloodbloom their way across her
lilywhite and corpseblue,
bowls of snow and birdsong
where her children drink

terrible terrible terrible
is she in her wrath, a storm of razors
threnody of locusts and howl of dogs
a wineglass on the stones

the lesser ship of the moon at her feet
the oars of the dead scraping on the paper sky
the orbit of the sun's black ink
a labrynth of nested spheres and fire
words from the broken book
the cracked throat's song
cannot trace her name
in this drapery of dust
this house of silence

she is the star's needle and bible black
she has birthed the day
over the rim of the world
and grinds the head of a snake
with clocks for scales

she breaths the milk breath
of the earth like a cat, she
does not know

how fair she is, her smile
a door in an alabaster house