Her name was Absinthe it
Was not the name her parents
Had given but a name adopted
The embodiment of an abstraction
The embodiment of an intrinsic
Stupor for which she was made
By circumstance to live
She lived by herself in
That part of the city that
Accommodates addicts
And exiles, suspended
From the telephone wires
Even when waking she
Found no respite from
Her nightmares. Her
Condition was not
To be envied, terminal
In its impulses, everything
She touched was subject
To premature expiration
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Sean was one of many men
Attracted to her blatant
Sexuality and her disregard
For cultural orthodoxy,
A true anarchist, a kindred
Spirit but hers was not
An extrinsic rebellion, she
Was not politically aware
She was outside certainly
But not purposefully, rather
Than the muse he’d supposed
She was a barrier manifest
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She sat on the floor hundreds
Of photographs torn at the
Seams, the tremulous light of
Two bodies not quite touching
Soon surgically divided by
The same shears that had claimed
Her hair, as vibrant as dragon’s
Breath. She’d loved Sean as the
Others with every cell in her
Body with every ounce of
Blood in theirs but he hadn’t
Understood her, didn’t see
The desaturation of the dusk
As a ritual death, didn’t
Feel the agony of the sunsets
And the necromantic rise
Of ash as the spirit world
Awakened, he didn’t see
The way the light moved
Before her eyes like writhing
Serpents or hear the coyote’s
Forlorn wail from beneath
The floor boards, he didn’t
See the murder of crows
Passing through the walls
Screeching cryptic messages
From pagan gods as they ate
Stale noodles from dirty mugs
No Sean did not understand her
And as she sat there in her pajamas
Midday melting his face into
Candlelight she chanted, certain
That he would feel the heat of
Her rabid and unwashed scorn
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This is my attempt at a submission for We Write Poems
mindlovemisery 