Of Swans And Seraphim Poem by Heaven Fay

how like pollen were the hands of that beautiful Hunter.
her mouth matrilineal of midsummer,
she took foal through the spine and ate messily that ambrosia.

and oh, when she came to me,
her thighs were warm.
fresh from the lake she was.
smelling always of thunderstorm and mint.
I shed my sundress in the presence of her smirk
which said to me:
“peel.”
those deer skins, blood stains on the insides.
left to grow buttercup.

so when she found me there
and sat me in her lap,
picking shrub from my shoulderblade,
I begged, “spear me clean,
but leave my heart hummingbird.
bliss, to be left limp by you.
to be held to you as supper.”

we found that house breaking,
painted it the shade of red
that we could become grandmothers inside of.
charred every sweet thing in the oven
and collapsed with the laughter,
with the smoke.

and always when she walked through the door
shaking with the blood on her hands,
sobbing “terrible, terrible, terrible, ”
I would kiss the milk swans in her breasts.
I would turn her into seraph
mumbling holy against my lips.

until the red paint curled in on itself.

the heatwaves
lulling me to sleep
in a bed of potpourri she drizzled with honey.
the fire would come soon.

then she would lay with me,
shushing me into winter.
burning that skin on the back of my neck
so when I awoke next,
I was haunted with the memory
of her breath there.