I. Queen of the Leaves (First of Two Tales)

I sought the broken moor-fields outside London

to speak to the dead woman kneeling there

between the trunks, grin snared in the branches.

Removed with these truanced fingers, calling,

to beseech her of a fledgling daughter:

what to do of decaying Solanaceae

amongst the shortest day of the year.

I strayed between foliage, reached skyward

with eyes so dead tired of dissolving

again & again into supple tear-craft,

to deliver my amends to such myths.

Faerie: a darkness visible to me

she spoke through dust, each minute catching word, cotton;

sharp-edge attachments on fetid breeze.

Caused a pause of breath & misstep backwards;

a falling to knees where I glimpsed her form

through the disturbance, passed cupped fingers.

While she laughed, French giggles which turned my world

word vertical, save those tortured eyes

carved upon the distance, which held dear me

crying out for simple understanding.

Shades changed as pictures turned

lounged upon the boughs till she fell cackling;

one autumn leaf dancing on spoiled air,

tempting the soil below with casual lore.

Her toes broke the earth where she touched down

clapped rigidly, then asked me to speak,

spitting violence through that beautiful smile.

I went to ask her about her daughter,

drinking heartily, blurring the edges

of my world, I asked only one word: why?

Watched the day burn off with her slow answer,

while blood fell in stages, where it striped soil

of moisture, froze into the red hardpan.

So long, the willows shifted to hemlocks.

I averted pupils for just one second,

one instant more of mute light clutching hard,

knew (heard) it was time then to leave this place.

To walk the longest road home-bound, loathing,

while I hemorrhage; one arm clasped for support.

Knowing it is time to cause a blunder.

For I'm a devil at a quick mistake;

when I make one, it takes the form of lead