Ill and Down, The Honey Heart

Ill and Down, the Honey Heart
(a golden shovel after Kesha)

So loud and so careful, the oak at my back knows me well
and bends to leave a branch for my spine. Touch here—this
is the hole we punch through the night, the tongue I could

call my own decked in juniper berries and sin. I’m almost
at the river again; the edge of the sky holds me open to kill
the memory of silver, that chill oblivion sinking toward me.

I remember how to cry, to scream, to howl bright like a young
coyote in a rough lace dress. Like a woman stuck dead in love
with herself and her night. Begin slow. See how I am murdered:

in my sleep, sweating, wrapped in cellophane and sugar. That
is where you find me—feathered, open, and sweet. This is
how it ends: Now. And I’ll lead you out there collecting what
​
I can of the branches, waking at 5am with trees burning—this
body is built strange in blood and raspberries and earth. It must
know the love I’ve lived—a sinister woman knows how to be.