they exist far away with
nomads and thieves
under inky satin skies
hand-stitched with diamonds
some nights they go flying
shrieking like Harpies
fall to feasting on whatever
they can find
they know how to be true
to their nature and purposes
they must be willing
to upset the table
their impossible hunger
drives them to it
they are prompted
by the tides in their blood
their sadnesses are fed
by the dark of the moon
and their tears are the spring-
source of their cunning
if you would be loved
be a golden boy
be a sun-god
daughters are dark.
On The Necromancy of Daughters by Abigail Ottley | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
