opheliasnotdead

With every tear, accompanying it, one needs a knife to rip a predator apart

[opheliasnotdead]

God, but I love you

like a dog

Slavering and

ever present,

resting

at the foot

of your bed

desperate for a pet

but content

with a kick.

You

dance fingers across

my maw

and condemn my teeth,

declare them

weapons

inevitably used against

You.

I grind them

while you sleep,

sawing point

against

point,

to dull my own blades

and ease your

rest.

But they

sharpen

overnight,

intent on puncturing the

delicate peace

between us.

God, but I love you

like a dog

And someday I fear

I will bite the hand

that refuses

to feed.

[opheliasnotdead]

There's a hole

in her wicker heart,

a ragged edged

gap

between bending willow

braids,

just big enough

for his birds

to slip in.

Blue feathers

brush red,

and red bleeds

onto the downy ends

of black,

until a soft,

conglomerate jewel

shimmers

in her twisted twig

chest.

But she

is not a place

where things grow,

rather

where they end,

settling

too weary

in the pit of her stomach,

and stretching their limbs

to the edges of her

until slipping

they fall

into sleep.

And he

is a priest

turned god-spouse,

setting fire to his fluttering

hands

to prepare for his worship,

fingers curled

around coals and skin

burnt

in sacrificial offering

to his wood lipped

deity.

She

will only crumble

beneath his

ministrations,

and he will find himself

in love

with her ashes

but

when the branches

of her ribs

curl to nothing

beneath his heat,

and her wicker heart

bursts,

the smoke heavy sky

will see the molten

awakening

of a new

bird

[opheliasnotdead]

Strange fruit

hangs heavy

on low branches,

gathered

bundles of frozen

teardrops

waiting

for the perfect moment

to

d r i p

from their

perch.

I taste their

salt

on my nervous

tongue

as I pass beneath them,

feel my chest contract

and eyes swell

as if I'm the

one

from whom the

watery harvest

sprang.

Slick skinned vendors

slither

from cracked stone walls,

arms overflowing

with copper scented

meats,

claw tipped fingers

hooked through the

freshly torn edges

of mystery flesh.

Their void eyes

stroke the unprotected

surface

of my face

and legs

and I am reminded

I too

am only so much

meat.

This

is the Goblin Market

my mother warned me

of,

Rosetti's nightmare

come to

life,

her grassy field

beneath my bare

feet.

And I

am the girl

whose curious-toothed

bite

into soft

temptation

spelled her

end.

[opheliasnotdead]

She

leans into my whisper,

grasps

at the tendrils of my breath

as though they hold

some holy answer,

Even as I

welcome the dirt’s rough

Kiss

against my knees,

lower myself

the better to petition

the perfect cradle

of her ocean-shell ear.

She

is Venus in the flesh,

seascape form forgone

in preference for humble

Humanity.

I understand now

why so many tremble

before candlelit alters,

cast prayers

to empty ceilings:

There is

such a piteous passion,

perfect painful ecstasy,

in the skating worship

of my fingers

along her thighs

That even

should I leave this moment

Unfulfilled

the agonizing satisfaction,

welling bloody

from Hunger’s

needle-bites,

could water

the starving fields

of my soul

for an eternity

[opheliasnotdead]

There's a man

on the corner

and his gnashing

teeth

are grinding

the air around

him

into broken

notes,

thin fingers

ripping

chords from

the earth

and stuffing

them

into his narrow

chest

jagged

and

rough,

to feed

the organ

beating there,

its flesh become

a pot,

heavy

and empty,

melting

what it's given

before spitting it

molten

up a throat

full of gravel

and

bare-metal

bits;

His shoulders

cave

and snap,

spine arching,

each gnarled

knot

a key to be

played

by his fingers

turned

bone-mallets

as mad music

spews

from between

split lips,

tongue

left raw

by the splintered

words

spit

by a man

possessed,

half melted

to his guitar

and living

for now

in the pitted

stone

expanse

of his song

[de-salva]

On a Winter Morning in Kashi (2024)

© Hema K. Pillalamarri

[opheliasnotdead]

I wish

you'd told me

we weren't

coming back.

I read

forty days

in the bits of glass

between

your eyelashes,

painted you

the devil

and lusted

for temptation

in the desert,

but

when we

drained

our canteens

and replaced sustenance

with white

sand,

I should

have known

you had become

my god.

I tied

my own wrists

with torn

strips

of silk sheets

you offered me,

wet them

with my spit

and stained

excuses

into the fabric,

until for my

weak eyes,

I muted

its

color.

Dirt

sucked my tongue

dry,

and in search

of water

I bloodied

my fingers

in hot sand,

leaked myself

and the black

viscosity

I found in the

packed soil

of your footprints,

through

cracked lips,

and for

a moment

was satisfied.

I had coveted

addiction,

and in the

backwards

Eden

you showed me,

I found the

serpent.

Thick

and bludgeoning,

to curl between

my thighs,

his fangs

pierced fruit

Eve

should never

have plucked,

and I,

in never-ending

thirst,

thanked him

for his

venom.

[opheliasnotdead]

There is

a broken-backed

donkey

wobbling

through the

crowd,

her loss

a sour-milk

hurt,

and a

smug

elephant

swaggering

behind her,

his fat

swinging

in pendulum

sways

above

the heads

of skinny

dogs

whose lips

curl

against

a hunger

they don't

understand.

Patches

bloom

in their fur,

mange

crawling,

that they

blame

on the

dog

beside

them

even

as the

worms

responsible

slip

unnoticed

beneath the

raw

pads

of their paws,

slimy

things

wedging

themselves

past the infected

lips

of open

wounds

and whispering

the names

of culprits,

dummies

built

of straw

and policy

paraded as

the face

of a party,

and the

first

to be

burned

when

their

cloth-sack

demeanor

droops.

There are

wolves

in the canine

crowd,

with stuffing

between

their sharp

teeth

and worm

caked

dirt

beneath

their

claws,

as empty

as their

gentler

brothers,

but dripping

drool

lies,

spit coated

promises

of fulfillment,

and

starving

dogs

can't tell

the difference

between

distended

bellies

full of

sickness,

and

their

salvation.

[opheliasnotdead]

To hell

with your

hands;

you can

wrap

stone fingers

around

my wineglass

wrists,

grind

bird bones

in a crooked

song

to bleed

from my

beak,

but I

will see

your palms

split.

Glass

doesn't bust

without

sharp

edges,

slivers

to bloom

from clear

water

skin,

lines

of

brittle

ice

hard-tipped

and

freezing.

You can

crush

me

beneath

your heavy

thumb,

sculpt

delicate

wings

into sweat-glued

refuse,

but my joints

will be

needles

beneath your

nails,

feathers

bent splinters

to slip

into your

dirt

pores.

To hell

with your

hands;

you may

leave me

flightless,

but I will

see

that you never

leave

the ground.

[opheliasnotdead]

Burst

in spite

of them,

don't stop

stuffing

your starving gut,

swallow

this world

whole

and spit its black blood

back.

Be

pretty like

pain

is pretty,

thin like

blades

are thin.

Don't let them

crush

you,

flattened between

glossy pages

and smoothed

over,

like water

stagnant.

There is charm

in a still pond,

but

lily pads

only paint

pink blooms

over festering mud.

Don't stop

screaming

even

if they beg

for singing,

this stone globe

is yours

to sculpt,

chisel clutched

between fingers

burnt

and

raw.

They

will clip your wings,

wrap your

scarred skin

in ribbons

and call it

a gift,

but too-tight

bows

only chafe,

and your body

is meant for more

than decoration

and praises.

Split thick tongues

with wrathful teeth,

claw

at their blue cotton sky

and never

stop

climbing;

Crack open

the silver-marrow

bones

of burning stars

and shine,

because

suns don't die

without taking

planets

with them.

[opheliasnotdead]

I crush my knuckles

in a hard plaster

kiss,

bend in

to the body of the wall

like a lover

diving

too deep

past bruised skin,

while you

twist your tongue

around the planets,

spin back-

Mercury

in retrograde-

and spit out

wet bits

of broken puzzle

pieces

past busted-star

teeth.

Our floor

is a torn-book,

bent-spoon

mosaic,

edges of a fallen record sleeve

powdered in

the black-soil

guts

of a now dead

flower pot,

your favorite

photo frame

cracked

down the center,

blooming

wood splinters,

and glass slipping

apart in a Red Sea

imitation

of our bone-shard

hearts.

I

don't want

to see your lids

split

like a levy

breaking,

ready to flood

the dark dirt

desert

of our living room

so I

watch tan paint

waver

to red

beneath my rough-brush

fist,

and tell myself

it's the house

that's bleeding.

[opheliasnotdead]

I have seen

galaxies

burst

into existence,

burning towers

of stars

crashing

through dirt-floor

blackness

and up

into the arms

of a purple sky,

exultant.

And I

have seen them

just as swiftly

wither

and die,

nebulous rings

of moonshine

glory

crumbling,

limp like ribbons

dropped

from absent fingertips,

to shatter

in quick-silver

bits,

each their own

broken-glass

multiverse,

limitless.

All this,

swirling,

in the widening maw

of your pupils,

black nets cast

to steal my breath

and suck me

soulless

into the depths

of you,

hungry

for the touch

of your mind's

creation,

the brush

of the universe

hiding

in the line

between your lips.

Pass me the planets

spinning

on your tongue,

and I will melt

them

in the blue fire

heat

of my own

sun.

[opheliasnotdead]

Sunlight

scrapes my skin,

my heels whispering

over hot stone stairs,

burning cobbles

teasing traveling soles

with the flirtatious threat

of a bite.

His hand

in mine

feels fresh

and cool,

sharp as the taste

of the Granada spring water

he offered me this morning,

ripe smile

swelling on his bitten lips

and clay cup up in

offering.

His body

is a summer flower,

skin soft in familiar welcome

as it embraces

the heat I struggle against.

I wipe sweat from my brow,

avoid sweet-leaf eyes

in fear I will find myself

caught again

in remembrance

of a too-close evening,

petal chest pressed to reverent fingers

and sharp boned hips straining

beneath towering mountain’s

gaze.

He taps laughing fingertips

against my too warm jaw,

curls his tongue

around foreign syllables

to chide me

for my slow ascent and

I

Bless the cliffs

of Alpujarra

for gifting me

their most precious

Bloom

[opheliasnotdead]

I dig desperate

fingers

into white sand thighs,

breathe fervent prayers

of rain-blessed thanks

as she ends my drought,

Shattered-glass nails

heedlessly carving

almost dangerous lines

along my scalp.

This,

I think,

is what it is

to dine at the foot

of a deity’s table,

belly full

of sighing absolution,

tongue drenched,

honey sweet,

in breathless praises.

She

blesses me

with a thumb print kiss

upon my labored brow,

sings forgiveness

in her keening

gasp

And sends me

Heaven bound.

[opheliasnotdead]

God made me a woman

because he knew

I’d be a violent

Man.

You turn your cheek to me,

expectant of your daughter’s understanding kiss

even as I clench my shaking fist.

You,

who raised me

in soothing bible’s cradle,

Who held me

in paper hands

Heavy

with history’s guilty ink,

Who taught me words

and thought

and love,

Who oversaw the baby-gated safety

of my first stumbling steps,

Have thrown me now

with nothing but a ballot

Headfirst

into this strange danger.

There is a wolf,

drooling for the give of my flesh,

furry hind quarters firmly seated

in the highest Office,

Perfectly situated

to oversee my death.

God made me a woman

because he knew

I’d be a vengeful

Man.

You

beg peace,

for the sake of the turkey

petition for the space to agree

to disagree

Even as my thin slip of safety

is stripped from me.

Predictable violence

Settles

as familiar as a softly gifted shawl

around my shoulders,

and I watch your tongue split,

coated in the secondhand vitriol

of spiteful speaking talking heads.

I’m beginning to believe

God made me a woman

because he knew

I’d be a better

Man.

[opheliasnotdead]

I look at that girl

in the photos

standing next to me

And I try to see you

as you are now,

I do.

I trace your tiny fingers

where they dent

the soft celluloid flesh of my arms

Stroke your wild hair,

tangled with mine,

and imagine you can feel it.

I whisper to You

that you are beautiful

You are everything

You are deserving of all those gentle

Things

You crave.

And all the while, the little me

beside you

is still not smiling.

She

Never was

Not

Like you.

Never

Like you.

I lift her

to my lips,

task her quietly

to love you

More

next time

To hold your hand

Tighter

beneath the stifling sheets

in grandma’s extra room,

To clutch you

to her chest

even when the summer heat

threatens to swallow

you both.

I look at that little girl

next to me

in the photos

and I beg her,

Beg you,

To live.

[opheliasnotdead]

I dribble

the perfected

Imperatives

into my search bar

turned confidante,

Sculpt

the smooth edges

of you

into a google-able

Adjective

And hope

it pings back

across the pixelated

Universe

Gifts me

the right

look-a-like

to fill my screen.

Sinful fingers crossed

playing pretend

with the sprites

inside my cold screen

will be enough

tonight

To fill the cavern

of your

Absence.

So what

if her hair

is only wheat

and not sun-warmed

honey smoothing

nearly too hot

over milk skin

This

will have to be

Enough.

He

doesn’t look

Quite

like you,

too much give

in his soft limbs,

But god

Good

God

I’ll bruise

my red knees

Praising

the idolatry of your

Likeness

Anyway.