The Crone Hunts

I can catch more flies with honey: now the jar is filled with maggots. Their soul-less bodies nothing but a blister of squirm. The hive is not yet buzzing. They are shedding their skin: trying to open their eyes. A susurrus of transubstantiation. A sprouting of legs & wings. I feel the haunting today: the singular decibel invading my inner ear: the powerful absence of an unsolved crime. I’m surprised to see a hummingbird at dusk: September oceans of plum: broken squares of oak & pine: fool’s gold singing with the last light of day. The first question is whether the small blue moth on the mirror is my father. This is also the second question. I am in search of the invisible door: the corner of the universe where she is dressing for a school dance. I know that someone woke up under dirt today: someone somewhere stood over a grave. My need flutters like a new human’s heartbeat: as hungry as the ocean at night. I know that I should answer your text & tell you that your friend will not die in two days: but I choose truth: I choose howling. Don’t tell me where anyone is buried. I might dig.