She isn’t dormant, she moves through the dark in this new phase,
as exact as a silver snowflake. Despite her voicelessness, she speaks to me.
Her swollen body is idolized in the black that she unstains; she owns the shadows.
I live for the night, it rejuvenates my scars; it’s my only pleasure.
But she soon becomes entangled in his net of branches, in his
labyrinth of wires. The moon-bruise aches in these hands that grasp
her too tightly, the constant stroking; her whole existence is fingered blackly.
I crackle with his razor touches that hook on to my skin.
Each vein sticks to her, emptying her white cup, eating her souring flesh;
to you the moon is just a stone, her presence doesn’t haunt you,
she is more than my reflection; and I feel myself becoming cold.
This struggle makes me scab but the yellow puss still leaks from me.
And I am numb with fear. She peeks through the branches like bone
in a deep cut, only she never stops bleeding. Her bleached corpse-body
aches for freedom, but she is truly caught; her ends fray and we unravel.
I wear her scabbing scars too, she is my sister after all.
This new phase is exhausting, he wants to lick my skin off.
My white body is caustic; it bites me back; I scratch and feel myself flake
beneath the nails. I touch the tree and feel its poison enter me.
You are my immunity. But I don’t think I can go on.
We are septicly whole. She is draining, pouring herself out, as animated as
the old skull with its thin layer of skin: its veins pulsating with the starved
appearance of Death. I don’t think I’m here anymore either. I am in her bone casket.
You know this crippling well; we have both lived with these deformities.
I am now in the tree with her. She is now all of my eye, we touch and
I am frosted. We are one to the wet core, that stuff that white is made from,
and we are each swallowed by his trunk, living inside his chest of ill health.