“Cemetery in Lemon Chrysoprase”
A tetragonal labyrinth scries walk, walk –
It says – it rains during funerals because
the earth turns inside out and the jagged edges
pierce the ears of sky. It says – I don’t
know, I don’t, I don’t. The lyme in this place
matches the carnation they gave me to
toss in, matches the color of your skin at the
end, matches the sun that absorbs, not leaks
light – a common misconception. Here is your
catechism: do you have nickels on your eyes,
or the rosary’s plasticine in your hair? Yes?
Yes – We drink of this cup, our sour froth plenty.
“I Think Death’s a Fig Under my Pillow”
I.
It was always your body
begging your breath to unhinge
an atmosphere of sound warm enough
for both of our shadows to thrive –
II.
I remember counting backwards & I remember the way
I’ve been falling in rhythms
since the day your eyes quieted. I meet
your bones in dreams of timelines outstretched
like the chaos of our bodies veiled in flames.
I reach greedily for the dark behind my neck
but I am still too much a part of the sun.
III.
One day, the kingdoms with clocked
walls will merge, and you’ll close
around me like a nearing music.
“The Place After Crossing Over”
I have two candles
mashed mandrakes in my womb
from birth – one is not born
unless one becomes
a woman with phoenix hair
feathers & fire & my two candles
only two candles left to call God with
and no matches to light them, but
hair alight with red – dead feathers
& ash
left over, left under my feet the way light
caresses my shadow one final time, the way
I disturb the light once more before returning
the way it juniors itself to me to ask for
one last dance in front of windows – curtains open
once more before I return the light of me
like coin-debts to the jangling [blank]
it came from.
“Do Not Touch the Moon”
Always, there are bodies bleeding –
as you speak, glitter boils over
your sweating lips. You know this
& this is your curse. In another life,
you were a witch in a taffeta shroud.
You were pregnant in the crossover –
Both souls bled blue calmly. You wore
only underwear, but not when they
killed you.
They touched you & you couldn’t
chant your curse until they touched
the moon –
The moon was you that night. You told me.
They touched you & they touched
you twice. The moon was like
dumb Tut, time-warped & a dog
barked loudly. You were the moon
& you wore a grave of thigh-length taffeta.
You moaned & pulsed the Earth
with velvet making it fragile
& too intimate
to survive.
Buy Kailey Tedesco’s She Used to Be on a Milk Carton (published by April Gloaming Publishing)