Ripen

poetry by Stephanie Valente

Ripen

holy mother of sadness, the water is thick

                                          and it smells different

                                          not like water at all

                                          i want to be an altar

cast me up: in blooming flower crowns, a long dress

                                          don’t forget

                                           surround my body

                                           with candles

                                           incense

                                          beautiful sleep

ask to die, but live instead

                                           call me ecstasy

                                           call me lilith

                                           call me your witch-wife

                                           i am neon crosses

we have a secret marriage, at midnight

                                          no one comes

                                          except us

                                          our rings are brass

                                           i sign my name in black

                                           kiss you in blood

                                           angels twirl,

ghosts saunter,

                                           churches are spells

                                           dig up the earth,

                                           our children will be air

                                           and stars

                                           i am forests

                                           you are the house

‘til death, but we breathe

                                         italian oranges

                                           holy kisses

                                           once, i was possessed

                                           now i am a fox,

                                           with armor

we make the night.

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in this rented universe, everything is ethereal
spinning holographic glitter, dizzying rhinestones
with a libra’s strength we trade secrets:
gold, women warriors, foxes, blood from wine.

the myth is, you and i tell each other we are
beautiful, precious, rare creatures, we are beholden
but we are scarred, i only have one gift:
surviving a horror movie with my song

you are grace, and most gems: a ram, rational
you asked death if it was real once, and yet
both of you prevailed. i don’t know if that’s winning.

my sacred horse, i can tell you it’s not losing.

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Stephanie Athena Valente lives in Brooklyn, NY. Her published works include Hotel Ghost, waiting for the end of the world, and Little Fang (Bottlecap Press, 2015-2019). She has work included in Reality Hands, TL;DR, and Cosmonauts Avenue. She is the associate editor at Yes, Poetry. Sometimes, she feels human. stephanievalente.com