In the velvet throat of midnight, she is the hunter
who forgets she is also the crow, picking the bones
of archaeology’s obsession licking the rose
and the petal’s that breathe
tracing the ribs by way of the clavicle
each sigh a psalm between the thighs
of the dissolution of becoming
a cathedral of hunger
the famine that never sleeps
written on the tongue of the rise
without absolution swallowing it whole
in the velvet throat of midnight, she is the hunter
who forgets she is also the crow, picking the bones








that’s Dita Von Tease I love this write ❤️
Thank you, Brenda.