Sing

The feast is ready for my waiting lips.
The food is boiled and salted and singed
and salted again.

The death mask, still warm from the oven,
might chip my teeth and cut my tongue;
boiled ashes will take the blood, will
sponge it up almost like bread;
there is no bread on the feast table,
there are photographs and diaries,
hidden under fine summer sauces of currants
and blackberries: berry juices to cover the ink
and bring out the melancholy tastes.

And the birds, flocks of them, little bodies
carved straight from wood. They have been steamed,
are soft enough to swallow whole, beak-first.
You loved those birds, loved them so much.
I can feel them choke me like crying fits.
Once inside, they live, they sing through the ashes.

It’s a cruel song, a song that scares off sleep.
I will hum for you, my dear, I will,
and I will give them tiny grains
from my bleeding lips
and let them sing.

 

Alexandra Seidel

Alexandra Seidel spent many a night stargazing when she was a child. These days, she writes stories and poems, something the stargazing helped with. Alexa’s writing has appeared in Strange Horizons, Apex Magazine, Fireside Magazine, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter @Alexa_Seidel, like her Facebook page, and find out what she’s up to at alexandraseidel.com.

 

 

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