Devours – by CARRIE REDWAY

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Carrie Redway


Brigid thaws.


pink beeswax melted around the wick

the room smelled of roses and verbena

a candle for spring, Brigid

lit every night in March


She insists: I am no witch, but I am a beast.

Brigid spills.


wax melted over the candle’s edge

seething down the shaft

how lava overtakes a large spruce

the way a Venus flytrap closes upon lunch–







(I only took communion in kindergarten

because I wanted the old man to feed me

those little thin wafers)


Brigid’s wax blood

pink liquid candy oozed out

through a sheer wax skin

pooled on the table


by morning the new layer dried,

hardened on top of old wax

it looked like stacked meat


A man whispers,

Dig into her, Boy.

Go on–

Women do not bleed. Women do not bleed.

And even if they did bleed,

it’s not real blood, only sweet taffy.


She insists: I am no witch, but I am a beast.


Redway photo

Carrie Redway is a writer and mixed media artist in Seattle. Myth, folklore and ritual inspires her work as does the moody Pacific Northwest landscape. Recently, her poetry appeared in Really System. Find her here:

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