give me the gun, my love
this is no dance, no

blue smoke coiling like hollow wire
above the spruce crowns, glittered

with the last cold
of the cruelest month

the tired ladder
propped beside the gutter
clotted scarlet

the knifesong of the wind
beyond the grasp
of the fire

a slap, a fist to the throat
or to the bones

the safety’s off, you turned
all your loaded words
on yourself

Photo Credit: Dani_vr Flickr via Compfight cc

Rachael Convery

Rachael Convery is a Classicist, Maker, and Scholar; follower of Sappho and Anne Carson; devotee of Beauty and the wildancient gods; seeker of the sacred and profane; lighter of candles upon the altars of the lost; daughter of savagedivine wolves; keeper of forgotten histories; lover of small, grand, and delicate things...

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