Am I to spend my days
locked in the longing
of my namesake?
I am a ghost
of knife and bone,
summoning a spell to lure
my foreign lover to my sheets.
On my shores,
he will find my hunger
as pure as the magick ritual
I cast for him in the blood circle.
The allure of my body; void
my bloodline forever cursed,
if I cannot secure him
with my charms.
I pace this small room
of stone, like a restless animal
stalking thoughts most treacherous.
The eyes of my Grandfather
watch me patiently from a gilded frame,
Pleading; what have you done, my progeny?
You betrayed your kindred
for a love born between your thighs—
that flesh that makes kittens out fierce men;
now your beauty must rot, unfulfilled.
I cradle the books that found me.
Tonight, I prop them on my knees
one by one; each offering up
a lesson I must timely absorb.
The rain speaks of days like these,
in dim light, with only my wit as guide.
No feat of voluptuousness;
of womanhood, shall aid me here.
I tiptoe down these halls,
a quiet predator in the shadows,
light feet, steel-trap cunning,
and wily defiance; I shall show them
what a woman of iron mind can do.
Image by Malte Baumann