“Then she will open all the cages and let the birds free; they will change back into young girls, every one, each with the crimson imprint of his love-bite on their throats.” –Angela Carter: The Erl King
My shirt is satin & deep crimson.
My teeth bare the scent of a fresh nape.
My hands are composed
of one-thousand tiny bite marks.
But sometimes I cannot help
to hold them.
Their eyes like little glassy opals
looking up at me with terror.
Oh the terror! It fills me
with a heavy warm opaqueness.
Like a blanket of snowfall
beneath a hush of gray sky.
And they sing
and they sing all in vain.
They sing until the night
when I place the veils over their cages.
What makes a man
when distress gets swallowed
by the bold golden throat
of desire; wicked and warbling.
Cages of sterling
and woven birch.
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