we do not imagine hell
its bitter sickle cuts
at the throats of our wrists
at the torn shawl wings
unable to uncoil cloths
of treacherous wound fury
it is there in the corners
curdling in the nooks
consuming the dead
exchanging blood
in the innermost rooms of movement
spitting back in the black light
two faces like our mother
cackling in our circles
until the sea turns
tide tugging hair roots
threatening to cleave
our broken hems behind
© Curtis Ackie 2023
Sophy Hollington, The Moon from Autonomic Tarot (2023)