by December Lace


Stalks of plants like broken necks scatter across the field

Reaching their skeleton fingers towards the fragmented sky

Cross clouds erupt, burst leaving what visible heaven there is

Looking like a mad artist upturned a bottle of blackest ink

The rain plummets in sheets


I’ve pulled you down from your post, a strawman corpse, while the witch gives chase

Raindrops rupture from your hay

You’re empty up there, because of past mistakes

Gears sputter, spit, and jam—won’t work anymore

Just sawdust behind sewn eyes


Apple-storms batter us

Leaving bruises the color of abuse

I heave your sunken bale

As we escape from her pickled face

The witch wants to rip through you, rework your wires


I’ll run this cracked yellow road with farm girl thighs

Arches cemented to sparkling spindles—

Let them shred my toes

Through poisoned perfumed poppy fields

Towards spikes of emerald monuments

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