DIRGE OF THE BEDDING RITE
look what’s bringing grace in
only to be set softly outside &
before long gets lost as me
without you your window
them days cusp on night
bleeds the sky a water skein
beg’d of you rough me fawn
just your key can fit my gut
a death texture that veils for
hope the smoothest stain
for me have not—you be
the vile i cannae look way from
benzedrine landmarks pour feverish absolution liquid
we idle radiant thighs
ignited doused gasoline
redhead noose spilling
felt softly for a Cock
i mistook for a weather vane
like fork to waxpaper
some calyx wrapped him to death.
AN EXHAUSTIVE LIST OF EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE FOR YOU
Number one, when your molar fell out I kept it
pulsing and warm in my hand while you tore
the kitchen apart hunting for the drill bit. Two, I let
you enter me with your slow tendon and not once
did I gripe about it, even when I did. Three, Of all
your surrealistic sexual fantasms the only way you could
cum was the very same which cast a dark shadow so
dark as if laced castiron hung over me my whole life long.
And in that woven darkness I would turn my face so my
tears would curl into my ears forming saltwater pools
you would never try to notice. I did that for you.
Four, I suffered the embolismic stuttering of your
night-breathing for ten years or more and not once allowed
myself to drown the sound of it with a decorative pillow.
Five. In the privacy of our home I displayed myself to you,
the soft side of my face when I’m afraid. Six.
Crawling back to the inuk camp
where the sun had ceased—
or was it seized?
the son had seized some
bloodclot of a wet skull
then stopped, then died,
then was brought again
as his mother’s only one
she pink wheezed harshly
that he better not try that again
or else she would be left
with nothing ruined.
from which corroded
blood seeped and
once touched by the not-
brain, not-heart of
the dull air which
So herein she doffs cloak and
lets the candles low.
invulnerable for little longer;
always one can expect further
weeping, sorrows, regrets, etc…
Now-while she lay uncloaked
unlit for as long as can stand
silly hope for something tender
who may still penetrate these bones.
BLESSED XENIA THE FOOL FOR CHRIST
Her plummet was swift. She met dirt just
after wet-crowning within that “kingdom”
of heaven like a miscarry sloughing
off the endside of a buffalo.
Judging by the tuft of crowfur jutting twixt
Her navel She was not so much more than
merely suggestion. However, She did cite
a kin tome. She quit whatever it is you quit.
And on earth our precinct She in solidarity
let leave of Her heart in a basin some red
ole thing throttling sick in the bluegrim sink.
Woesome is She who is as kept as deprived.
How dark those eyes that flinch not
and O, how they have-not.
Ana Nikolić is a poet of generation Z. She’s from NYC. Instagram: @2slugsinlove