Esvie Coemish

Love Letter 47

Folk Song Of The Laundraic Orders

I sat on the dryer, a sack of drool,
a sun crushed angel craver;
scarf of fire, riffle of pleasure,
I hide worlds inside words, your

bud plucked without a stem, blood pollen stone,
gardened breast, garnered brim.
Breathe us home, bright, hymn-solemn,
cast us hands when we call them.

What do I sing, dosing ginger and thyme
as cure for scarred fabling?
Symphonic reeds. The phone rings,
seraphim choir, soul-chording.

I’ll bite your petal throat, ivy-brutal
bundle bound in my coat
of severed heads, your sealed ghost
an old white sock, winter soaked.