by Isabel Rhodes
They call me Maiden of the Night,
but I crawled out of the sun.
Celestial fluids dripped from my wings,
blisters marred my cheeks and bloody welts
rose out of my skin,
a garden of puckered flesh
Exiled to the flame,
but from the ash,
I rise
As I cast shadows
bending across the wind,
Jackals greet Hyenas
Arid barks met with shoulder shaking laughter,
beneath my palms, they purr
behind my heels, they follow
God tried to press me to my knees,
never did I bend
Banishment for carnal desires,
fine, then I do sin.
Banishment for my own volition
fine, then I do burn.
Servant Serpents snake around my waist
A body shaped with fat and muscle
Breasts heavy, but not with milk,
Eyes like charcoal roses hanging behind the glass
Yellow, callused, feet
built to beat the ground.
I fled from Eden
to sculpt my own
Thorny roots of Freedom tie knots beneath the grass
And pale oak hold blooming leaves, the color of blossomed Anarchy.
Take a walk across the ponds, soaked with the sky’s reflection
pregnant with grayling and trout, silver scales catching.
At the water’s bottom, hidden between the stone,
clams with golden pearls brushing against their tongues
rest in the sunlight’s breath.
Let me be your liberty,
Fall into my acid pit, be caught by holy clouds
Be greeted by bloodied sisters,
harmonies of equal bruising
And let us drown the ceremonies which held us under stagnate waters
Listen Daughter, carefully,
Wrap your teeth around your ankle
and Chew til you feel release.
Gnaw til you are running,
limb left in that shining snare.
Isabel Rhodes lives in the woods of Fairbanks, Alaska with her German Shepherd. When writing in her cabin, she frequently hears squirrels arguing in the spruce outside and owls hooting philosophical birds-speak when it gets dark. Isabel is working on a collection of short stories and poetry, always leaning into feminist themes and a creepy, though delicate, writing style.
Hawaii Pacific Review 