By A.E. Vogt
There’s salt water in the fields,
tree sap in my hair and
my own bloodied lip was the only honey I tasted all year.
The branches of a dying season claw through my sleep.
Everyone who has touched me
held a hook behind their eyes.
I used to cry to the bile-pale sky for warmth
but the ice won’t hold you, the snow refuses to forget.
Everyone who has held me
carved their name into my tongue
and I swallowed with gratitude.
As it bows over my shape –
sparse as the knee-high forest in winter’s grip –
the chimney shudders and spits more ash
than it’s never known.
If you follow the tracks beyond my blackened bone
you will find the catalyst on his belly,
begging the underbrush for shelter.
If you’re looking for a place to lay the blame:
tie it around my ankles.
If you’re searching for the killer:
don’t look at my grey tongue.
The match in my charcoal fist is still warm.
A.E. Vogt began writing poetry three years ago. She often draws inspiration from her childhood, growing up on the Canadian prairie. She is passionate about writing pieces inspired by elements of nature, folklore, religion, and her experiences of womanhood. When she is not writing, she is busy being a freelance photographer, painting with watercolors or getting lost in the forests near her home in Germany. To read more of her work, checkout her website.