Crone: (n.)

  1. Late 14c., from Anglo-French carogne, from Old North French carogne; a term of abuse for a cantankerous or withered woman, literally “carrion,” from Vulgar Latin caronia (see carrion).


I wake up in the desert Sylvia Plath.
In sand until it becomes hot enough for pain, 
                                                                                            eyes burn under their lids. Morning      


these days: too


Death a bauble where conscience should be, finding
a new girl in granular limbs, swimming. 

How long before we bake into paper?
How many endless-sky afternoons until we turn blonde as baby days? 

                                                                          Bones forcing a body to find water.

Of course topography: for muscles, for contours. 
Of course dunes and walking, falling

                                                          back into a greater expanse
                                                          of particulate flesh, exponential
                                                          hours of loose failure,
                                                                                                           heading East.


I was ample, once.



                                                          How soft that was, sliding into my own loose earth.

Of course topography so eyes remember
they are for seeing more than three channels: 

Blue for sky 


                                                                                            blink fetal red glow

                                                                                            blink chameleon gold. 

                                                                                            Blink grit. 

Replace dune with bones, bones with mountains.

                                                                                                   To loom and provide shade, 
                                                             bring purpose to my womanhood’s negative space.

Out of grit, become disparate anatomy: fairy-tale-being.
feeding land from decomposing mythical flesh.

One day, if I’m lucky, I too will decline
                                                                    my spine will fall
scoured clean with sand. 

                                                                    Another girl will blister-foot her way up to me, 
                                                                    waste valuable water crying in relief

By that time, the word ‘relief’ will hold no meaning
if paradise is all it cracks open to be. 

                                                                           We crawl into the first cleft of rock
                                                                                                                        pull legs in
                                                                            tibia-fibular siblings marionette-like, 
                                                                                                                     useless ankles
                                                                                                                     bloody feet    

                                                            We know bone weeps if you dig deep enough. 
                                                            We know we must drink
                                                            before flesh forgets native function,                 
                                                            chars and peels 


Feeding here means hand-to-mouth succulent and tough green leaves, bitter but full of juice, tearing my tongue and cheeks to match my soles. Their redness corresponds: my wounds talk
to each other because my voice has turned to sand. 

In a churchyard I bite into a smooth white round tulip bulb dug from the border of the chapel. 

                                                                                The taste burns for days,
                                                                                                                 blink blue,
                                                                                                                 blink cooling.



I stuck my face in the hose, mouth open to rinse out the sting of perennial mistake


I wake up hard and into wind, steady out of the north and always in my face. I tell myself moments like this are commonplace in adulthood, moments like this are the daytime
equivalent of trying to go to sleep without a happy ending. My mother laughs at me,
lights up on a

                                                       Lights up on a phone conversation.
                                                      MOTHER (older, wiser) listens to
                                                      DAUGHTER (tired).

I imagined my thirties feeling more stable—

HA (continuously, for 30 seconds of polite amusement.)

                                          My choice to abstain from
                                          motherhood no doubt carved the
                                          gap her laughter now fills. 

                                                           End of play.


When she was my age, she was watching her dreams fall apart and reconstitute into the
faces of two healthy, growing, 
                           all consuming

I have never outgrown that trait. I stand waiting for a traffic light and I am still growing,
my underneath and inarticulate nature unhinging its jaw to draw in whatever might be of

I swallow full quarter-hours trying to fit this mouth around what the fuck I am going to
do now that I know how to get what I want, eating every moment of my days without a
thought to when they will be digested.
                                      I look and look. Lights up

                                                       Lights up on a bathroom. A NAKED WOMAN, 32,
                                                       and her RIGHT EYE sit: one on the toilet, one in
                                                       the bathtub. 

                                                       Perhaps they are smoking a joint, or some other
                                                       liberal relaxation method. Perhaps one is
                                                       dissatisfied with her fat deposits (even though
                                                       that’s cliché). We all know which one pays too
                                                       much attention.

                                                                                   NAKED WOMAN
                    I’m making sure I haven’t spontaneously become a man.

                                             Eye puts the joint in the sink and runs water
                                             over it, until the fire goes out, until the paper
                                             and ash disintegrate, grey pigment no longer
                                             staining the sink, the sound of water
                                             traveling into the Naked Woman’s want at
her center and nothing escapes.

                                                                                  NAKED WOMAN
                   Read to me from the internet.
                                                                                  RIGHT EYE
Absorbing selfhood past the event horizon, we can never
know what space the love we feed her shares with fear, or
anger, or confusion. We can only watch as the edge of her
maw moves back through time. Then the lights go out,
because no light can escape. 

Lights out, End of Play.