Marigolds, My Wounds

Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,

lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen

suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,

cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate

in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre

the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier

of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows

and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.

Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.



Author: Leila Samarrai

I am a person of Himalayan seclusion, I am Atalanta in vestments of Helen of Troy, for me there is no term (aphorism there is, maybe). Cosmopolitan is too modest word for one who wanders across epochs without the help of the time machine. Some people consider me weird, because usually this is so when they do not understand something or someone that do not represent their existence. I love cats, an animals in general, I like challenges, I am persistent, I am combative (sometimes I can exaggerate in that - in all) If I were stylistic figure my mortal name would be Hyperbole. Read me. Know me. Conquer me :)

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