by Jeannelle Ferreira
She wove the woman through the wych-elm;
She kissed the grand duchesses' cooling mouths.
And it was (she says) a century for children,
stacked and red-cheeked,
waiting for her, dressed for winter in a scattering of loam.
She lost her appetite for them.
Now, in your bed, she eats apples,
smearing honey. Between her breasts, (for irony) a ruby
trembles, as if she breathed. The year
turns at sunset, her knee
a sharp hook at your thigh, her fingers
chasing the scrape of her pointed teeth.
Inanna was easy (left her weeping);
modern girls, a brush of your hand
through lightning. She says it and smiles
at the hand-of-Miriam shielding your throat.
(her hands were sand-creased, her hair starless black.)
That's pretty, she tells you
and bends, in the dark of the bedroom, down to drink.
Jeannelle Ferreira spends her days editing, believes in ghosts, and will write queer stories until the world doesn't need them any more. She is the author of one novel, a two-mom-family children's book, a handful of short stories, and surprisingly (if you know her from that prosody class in high school), several poems; she has a degree in creative writing from Brandeis University. She lives in Maryland with her wife and daughter. Most recently, her work can be found in Steam-Powered II: More Lesbian Steampunk Stories (Torquere Press) and Stone Telling.