Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Black House

by Tina Kessinger

The mind ignites its black house.
+Charred birds pour
++from each window, funnel
+++toward the chimney sky.

The moon is a plate of bones.
+Its voice is singular,
++unmoored, drifting
+++like the small boats of stars.

The doctor came
+with her malignancies.
++You carved her up
+++and buried her.

I kept her pharmacy of pearls,
+her stethoscope, to place
++upon your chest, a cold
+++amulet of hope.