Magic from Distilled Carrion

Oak leaves turn black when branches
imbibe magic from the vulture’s song.
Sapling strength chokes
arterial flow, ghosting tissue
thick as rot. Poppy tears
lay me beneath its trunk,
bound by lacing roots.
 
Her spell spins to waken hands,
bar the bloody attempt to
possess my conception.
A sprinkle of rain, like the moon
divining defilement.
Mother’s caressing crystals.
 
I follow her, fingers brushing
shoots of night shade, a field betrayed
by the dial of universal light.

Elizabeth York Dickinson received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. She has work published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Drunk Monkeys, Picaroon Poetry and Riggwelter among others. She currently lives in Evanston, Illinois.