a journal of fantastical poetry

The Age of Stone

by Alexandra Seidel

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

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