The locusts were already there.

the Locusts were
Already There--

Knawing
on the new
Leaves,
the Tenderest shoots.

the melon vine
I planted in the Spring,
was no match
for the
Hungry Field
behind our House.

Townsfolk brought you Birds and
and you Burned them.
People brought you Dead things that had fallen from Wires,
and

you Cut them,
quietly, with Powder and
Dull kitchen Knife,
in the white shed
Behind our House.

Friends left you offerings on your Doorstep,
and you
Left them to Rot in the Field,
insects
Knawing round their Sockets.

(i found by accident that clove oil banishes your presence),

The smoke from that Field
was Rank,
heavy with the guilt of pollen and corner-dust,
Cloying, Meddlesome, Sweet

I would have Folded myself
into the Flames
for you.

but Mortar has turned to Quicksand
the bricks are falling
as bodies
Heaped.

blue Alchemy bone Powder
Grated,
is
Sieved.
(conch-shells, peacock feathers).

your
Poison,
smoke in my Blood,

Dissapates

Now.

I sit in a
White Room,
With a brand-new Crystalline
Heart,

Rainbow shadow Walls,
Feather-beaded,
Abalone,
and Cone.

Safe
within
Walls,

your Hold has
become
a Skeleton’s
hand
of Ice.

Melted into
a Once-Lattice,
an old Pain Scaffold,

New Invisible
Trace—

Non-Presence.