next spring I will be one hundred & twenty-nine
in siren yrs, we count everything in drownings.
the grim reaper is not looking for me but I know
her gaze, have practiced it on mirrors & humans
& what is the difference in staying alive & being
alive? You have heard things, I am sure you have
noticed my whiskey spit, skulls floating, mouths
adrift & me on a rock begging someone to come
closer, the thing is, a song is nothing but a spell
that has found another way to plead. Me, I am
nothing but a bargain, you can dress the cross-roads
anyway you like, they’re still crossroads, someone
still has to die. Why does it always have to be
a woman? Don’t you remember the thread held
by three old broads —snippings & cackle sharp?
Turns out, it was a man this whole time. I get it, why
would anyone let a woman be in charge of such
a Goding, but herself?