a journal of fantastical poetry
The Age of Stone
There is a weight of stones on me, the blanket of the buried alive, the blanket of fossil women. But I still breathe. There are no children here to scramble into my bed and huddle for warmth. I am stone broken, not barren perhaps, but too other to exchange stones for arms and human warmth. There is a weight of time on me. Three witches, there are three witches in my ancestry and I carried water from the river soundlessly, baked bread in silence: nothing true have the cards ever told me. Time will crush my bones and I will not be remembered. I will not leave any magic in this world. I wish the blanket would shift. I wish the blanket would cover my heart. I am a daughter's daughter's daughter descended of true witches three; every morning, woken by wind, I push the blanket off and rise to wander the halls of my house alone. One morning not too far from today, the wind will blow and all the weight will be my skin and I will rise no more.
June 6th, 2019