Belladonna | the witch in the forest
find me near the forest fringe,
where leaves fall discarded like
loose ends, trimmed—sniffed like
a foxglove, tempting as honeysuckle,
deadly as nightfall. Aching, the swell
in your pinpricked eyes; gazing up
into the inky black night, to find me.
air-tight—meet me with a sudden
urge to expel this magic. take me beneath
the frozen starlight, let the trees see
it all. lay me bare, paint my skin
with your delicate concoctions. Call me
your deadly nightshade.
you see more in me than this desire
to please; extract the magic, let us all
bleed.
where leaves fall discarded like
loose ends, trimmed—sniffed like
a foxglove, tempting as honeysuckle,
deadly as nightfall. Aching, the swell
in your pinpricked eyes; gazing up
into the inky black night, to find me.
air-tight—meet me with a sudden
urge to expel this magic. take me beneath
the frozen starlight, let the trees see
it all. lay me bare, paint my skin
with your delicate concoctions. Call me
your deadly nightshade.
you see more in me than this desire
to please; extract the magic, let us all
bleed.
Deadly Nightshade
there are days where the black rose sleeps
almost like a dewdrop poison has cursed her
to a slumber so deep, the ground cocoons
each thorn like a mother holding a baby
there are days when deadly nightshade emits
a spectacle from its grip—the black rose slips
like a ghost around her shape. fraternal sisters
succumbed to a legacy of black sorcery and
you pluck each stained petal from me as though
no purpose exists. only pressed flowers for your
journal attempts and your garden waste and your
constant disappointed gaze. there are days
when my tears stain with ink like a black rose
has smeared herself across my face. there
are days when I wish I knew the right things
to say. there are days when I want all
of these flowers to go away. there are days
when I still wish you had stayed. and the
frost bites at their thorns until their limbs
slip away and nightshade starts to hibernate
and I slipped some into your tea for when
you wake—so that the flowers disintegrate
and we dance beyond the jurisdiction of a
mortal stage. once again, limbs drawn away.
almost like a dewdrop poison has cursed her
to a slumber so deep, the ground cocoons
each thorn like a mother holding a baby
there are days when deadly nightshade emits
a spectacle from its grip—the black rose slips
like a ghost around her shape. fraternal sisters
succumbed to a legacy of black sorcery and
you pluck each stained petal from me as though
no purpose exists. only pressed flowers for your
journal attempts and your garden waste and your
constant disappointed gaze. there are days
when my tears stain with ink like a black rose
has smeared herself across my face. there
are days when I wish I knew the right things
to say. there are days when I want all
of these flowers to go away. there are days
when I still wish you had stayed. and the
frost bites at their thorns until their limbs
slip away and nightshade starts to hibernate
and I slipped some into your tea for when
you wake—so that the flowers disintegrate
and we dance beyond the jurisdiction of a
mortal stage. once again, limbs drawn away.
Snow Queen
She pulsates, the magic pooling at her feet.
Erupting in such cacophony, her decibels
have the animals fleeing far, far away--
like a scene from a biblical film, her limbs glow
with this perishable incantation. If magic were
a being you could dazzle into bed; it would be her.
Her eyes remain guileless, a futile display of faith
in this brand-new feeling; drinking in the wildness.
Part of her still yearns for the erosion of a sunglow.
He sits in a pool of ice. Skin bitten and dazzling, always--
part of her wonders if that is what it felt like to kiss her;
always floating off elsewhere, fragmenting like a frozen river.
What she would have given to be the one to thaw him.
Erupting in such cacophony, her decibels
have the animals fleeing far, far away--
like a scene from a biblical film, her limbs glow
with this perishable incantation. If magic were
a being you could dazzle into bed; it would be her.
Her eyes remain guileless, a futile display of faith
in this brand-new feeling; drinking in the wildness.
Part of her still yearns for the erosion of a sunglow.
He sits in a pool of ice. Skin bitten and dazzling, always--
part of her wonders if that is what it felt like to kiss her;
always floating off elsewhere, fragmenting like a frozen river.
What she would have given to be the one to thaw him.
|
BIO:
Chloe Hanks is an emerging poet; having graduated with a first class degree in English Literature and Creative and Professional Writing from the University of Worcester, Hanks has published her first pamphlet with V Press Poetry and continues to explore folklore, fantasy and legacy in her writing.
Twitter: @ChloeHanks4
Instagram: @ChloeHanks23
Chloe Hanks is an emerging poet; having graduated with a first class degree in English Literature and Creative and Professional Writing from the University of Worcester, Hanks has published her first pamphlet with V Press Poetry and continues to explore folklore, fantasy and legacy in her writing.
Twitter: @ChloeHanks4
Instagram: @ChloeHanks23
