Sphagia

Nightshucked, lay us, miles from touch but yes, your voice

remained to feign hurricanes over a furtive bridge, between

two pillars most just call legs. You asked for brief, for images

of hips, of elbows, of every enticing edge, and one, yes that I

loved of myself, you said. What a task for this loveworn sibyl

bent at odd angles by the boy-god who fingered her heart

in search of songs, of verbs. Didn’t you come first, swaddled in

milked starlight, eyes sewn by dreaming? Plucked ravenous,

you did, that cult of ripe peaches, how they fell into the cave

most coveted, most curious; o’ cushioned seat, o’ the down-

fall of me. And like most women prone to visions, I wept ‘til

worlds burned round in my hands, I wept ‘til understanding

blazed bright as tanager wings: yes, you would never belong 

to me. Knowing this, I swam through fields of cinnamon,

knowing this, I blushed like a cousin of iris. Though I saw,

yes, the trill of ashes; I ran to the fire in my longest dress.

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Kale Hensley is a poet and visual artist from West Virginia. Her work can be found in BOOTH, Evergreen Review, Image Journal, and other literary venues. She lives and teaches in Texas alongside her wife and a menagerie of clingy pets. Find more of her work at kalehens.com and more of her life at @julianofwhorwich on Instagram.