The Abattoir

Hold me tightly, curse my elusive grip
Once I said yes lightly, now you clench my broken reins
A car park ballroom
A forested abattoir
A snapped new shoe strap
A silent wife
«And how afraid we were, when we were small, of Mormo:
She had huge ears on her head
Walked about on four feet
And was always changing faces
But when you mounted your husband’s bed. You forgot all about those things
All you heard from your mother»
— Erinna, «The Distaff» (IV B.C.) —
Like wet flour I will knead you
And your bowl will brim with tears
By my hand unholy vessel, what is broken never heals
Before the dawn you’ll bear my name
My fingerprints like strings of pearls
Your nacre flows below my blade
Sediments of pain
Like wet flour I will knead you
WOE
Like wet flour I will knead you
WOE
Like wet flour I will knead you
WOE