Other dreams

All the other dreams I had

were dreams of simple things, what lingers

in a sunbeam, the specters of our days like floating motes

just dust, the ghosts of us like clouds in the summer sky, wisps

wisps of mist at the edge of the forest, its moss cool on our bare toes

bare toes fooling in a cool pool of water, drawing fairies and dragonflies

dragonflies resting after jousting on swaying Queen Anne’s lace

Queen Anne’s lace glowing lemon white, wild in beams of sunshine

sunshine melting over my skin like fresh lemon glaze, warm and sugary

sugary kisses from this child, the one who grows to never forgive herself.

©Susan Zegarsky  

Santa Clara Review 

Nocturna

Small Fires

We were wild daughters;

we were wild, born like rare blossoms bejeweled in dew,

raising faces to the morning sky, so new

we pretended we were racing wolves and not mere deer

trembling under the bright moon, taking dares

to prove our bravery.  If you

remember this tale, you will save your life.

We were wild, daughters, caught in traps, taught

to bathe our pure bodies in sweetly-spiced oils, to paint

ourselves with crimson flowers, to hold honey and lime

in our mouths to sweeten our too-free tongues,

to still our howls.

Then we were still fresh echoes, unwearied,

and so trusted when they said we were just wild creatures made

to make the men whole; we believed we had magic inside of us

to mend them, the duty to feed

the avarices of men with the nobility of our existence, to feed

their false fires with our true burning. We were told

they needed us for this, it is an honor to give, and so

we let ourselves be tamed, and tamed,

we danced in crowns we didn’t see were thorns, we sacrificed

all that was inborn, the gift of us, all for our men.

Daughters, we burned ourselves for them,

we burned ourselves on pyres

making one great light

from all the small fires.

©Susan Zegarsky  

Quail Bell Magazine 

My hands are composed of butterflies

My hands are composed of butterflies

making it impossible to grasp the most important of things;

the most important of treasures slips

into the bright flittering spaces of breath left after flight

ever lost as light

beneath ephemeral wings.

My spine is the birch tree branching higher, twigs ever-thinner 

nerve tendrils creeping through the current of flesh;

the flares of fire encode this life, passed

into the rings of my body as a count of years with dimming sight

insubstantial as light

entwined to the earth.

I hide this extinction

behind my fluttering fingers.

If I could have held onto them

what worlds we could have lived in.

©Susan Zegarsky  

Grim & Gilded 

November Sky

There is a story in the November sky,

story of a storm of indigo and grey, 

of the way

hallowed crows fly

while yellow leaves sail like pain through pearl snowlight

across violet space

and of the way

I cry

as if burned to ashes,

as if to prove to autumn

I knew her

in her garnet and gold, I was with her,

here with her.

On this earth I was alive, I was

alive.

©Susan Zegarsky 

Wake

 beneath the reaching hazel tree

a sweet witch's spell      we tangle in a summer charm, humming

in her shade then, we sleep

two of us, reaching, winding, wanting

windows wide to white light, curtains fly     our same wet German sky

on the down then, we sleep

winding dunes, far north of Amsterdam, we

flee with the wind, with the sea,   with the seconds      bitter cold, still colder

tomorrow then, we      wake

©Susan Zegarsky  

Coffin Bell Journal 

Ghosts of You

You left many ghosts

in my care.

You left the ghost of

your voice, your red

rage the thunder in my ears

that shakes me unexpectedly in the dark.

Your ghost comes out of my mouth

when I speak of myself.

Freak, you say, Failure;

those names like curses you spoke at me

always threatening something more.

You left many marks

engraved across my skin, still etched

on what is left of me, on what I haven’t yet peeled away

to erase your touch, your every touch, carvings, your marks

the ghosts of fangs

and venom.

You left ghosts of your hands,

bruised the throat of my hope

voiceless where you strangled it, wrung it

dry;

your handprints remain

where you twisted my gifts into grievances.

You left one of your ghosts

in the corner, in the space

where I always hid from your furies

until one the day you found me.

This ghost stands there still, still and hot,

all eyes,

the way you stood over me, towering, a disobeyed god.

Your boot prints appear and disappear here, laden ghosts

crushing down my bones to grime 

beneath your weight, your weight

somehow less heavy

than the fear tightly packed inside my chest.

You left many ghosts

in my care.

But these ghosts of you

are only half of what you were,

lesser tormentors,

only your echoes, your aftermath, the nightmare

of you,

not you,

and this is my relief.

©Susan Zegarsky

The Horror Zine 

Into Thin Air

From a distant life,

from a thousand miles away,

I recall the innocence of your hands;

I remember the way you held onto me as if to keep from falling away,

the way you reached out for me as if to save yourself from drowning.

This is all I’ve saved of an uncorrupted time when I didn’t yet know

your feral malice would sear me into cinders of bone, one day

your fingers would stretch and ache to choke like tendrils of seaweed.

In silence I was nearly tangible

but as I spoke, you alone became immuring stone.

I recall the sharp rage of your hands born

to tear the voice from my throat, to bury me, erase me, snuff me

still, so I,

I dissipate into air, ash, autumn sky.

       life slips into the air – blades of yellow leaves rain through slips of perilous sun

       someone sleeps on the ground – something slips from my hands

       breath escapes, never caught again – they will know you did this

Soon only one of us will drown in thin air and still

love is not war no matter how bloody you make it.

©Susan Zegarsky

Ink in Thirds