Prose Header

Incubus, Indentured

by Meg Smith

Something knits
but it is not
that dark love
bathed
in what you wanted.
And you — behold
the skull, to eye,
white-bone cave.
This is so
what you will posit
what binds, bleeds,
tumbles out.
Mewling, blind,
they will limp
away from you
into a cold, new light.


Copyright © 2020 by Meg Smith

Home Page