A fingernail against the veil
and the world goes white, goes
blue, goes white again against
the pressure of a single question tossed
into the void, asked of shadows
in the moment between hope
and knowledge. This world spins
over numbered women long
turned to ash, over shades
of the neverborn, over unfaithful
wives and the sins of kings. I am
the blind wisdom whose face runs
like wax as a prelude to war, whose
eye sears through the gossamer web
of science. They burn me
into silence, but look, already
they hunger for truth. I smell like meat.
Even the priest’s belly rumbles.
About the author:
Colleen S. Harris is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee whose books of poetry include God in My Throat: The Lilith Poems (Bellowing Ark, 2009), These Terrible Sacraments (Bellowing Ark, 2010; re-released by Doubleback Books, 2019), and The Kentucky Vein (Punkin House, 2011), and she co-edited Women Versed in Myth: Essays on Modern Women Poets (McFarland, 2016). Her poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Free Verse, Appalachian Heritage, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, 66: The Journal of Sonnet Studies, and Tipton Poetry Journal, among others. She goes by @warmaiden on Twitter, IG, and Bluesky
Part of our Winter 2025 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through February 2025.
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