Devours
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–
silent
stoic
shameless
She.
(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.
***
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:https://twitter.com/carrie_redway.
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