Salem


This grimoire we entrust
between us –
stained-red leather burned
with gold foil –
creaks when pried open.

The pages are pristine
(pearl white)
and we grin as we bleed
(page by page)
the ink from our minds.

It’s a sort of bloodletting:
pen leaches
that lance the dark boils:
all the thoughts
we ought not to dwell on.

We write back and forth
– a loom
of secret cruelty and suffering
– but quietly now
or this book will burn with us.

Enhanced by Zemanta© christine DINGLEY 2011
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