by Jana Astanov
Their escorts are envious ghosts
smashing
eight cups of spilled hopes and lost pleasures
two swords jerking deadly wounds
five spirits failing
ten wands of his choice of torture
She bundled together the spell-book,
dried flowers, the true cause of wildfires
and never dries the petals
especially not magnolias, wild daffodils and cherry blossom
The fool tipped of the cliff
her broken wings here, the angel elsewhere
She pretends to know nothing about it
Getting her eyebrows done
light brown, whatever …
Whatever is coming
The moon stands in a blurry ring of bronze light
Her thoughts are scattered in tiny perfect spheres …
I’m a stone nymph not really alive or
A warrior made from scrap metal
always caught mid-movement
or am just a luminous turn
for his ravaged ways
a long silk bloody nightdress
trimmed in torn barbarian lace…
She moves her lips because
love won’t happen
Lights on cords burning
Lovers are dreamless
She’s done!
