Poem: Fates

 

Fates

 

three birch,

they lean tattered,

a blood of ants

on their varicose shins.

 

so easy to mistake

their necromancy for baptism.

their frayed crowns

for jewels and light.

 

i’ve seen them

flute judgements into a storm;

and glare as one

from a wound-colored bird.

 

husks of leaves

shuffle beneath,

mangled hobos,

whirlpools of hurt texture,

 

an ongoing procession

of the slain.

 

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12/27/24 ... "hurt" replaces "sad"

12.25.24 eds