after Hilma af Klint
you’ll remember me
as a zygote
scrambling towards
cronehood
on its haunches; i grow
bloomwards. my teeth
outstretched
on the front lawn
during the violet
hour, spelling
spells disguised
as poems.
hermit to hermit;
we kiss
to form
a single nautilus,
sistering
divinity. tell me
when was it
you last
heard from
your spirit?
my guides
have abducted
me quite
violently
from the tulips
i’ve found myself
asleep in.
it is all but
true; my eggs
have clasped
in my womb
like pearls.
my intention
is not to create
life,
but death.
though, i misspoke —
my true intention is
to create
life out of death.
find me in the portal
on the left, right next
to the electric
fences of my
darknesses, all
clumped.
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