Past a shadowed eye stands
Jane, one-legged. Foot propped
on porcelain ledge, muscles tight
along knuckled curve. She proffers
a spread like a tangled wound,
defiled flesh fills a bone cup.
Hands flutter in ritual circles
beneath the arc, they pull and twist
and now the scourge begins,
cold fingers bury themselves, the beaks
of carrion birds at a living thing,
gaining strength on what's left behind.
Lather builds thick, angry; gathers
where skin becomes savage, secret
eater of the dead. Memory hangs heavy,
falls to spatter on broken tile, spat wads
of rage and reverence. Jane shifts
ruined eyes over a dark shoulder,
hot black stare of a baleful goddess.
The scar that splits her face burns,
spills fire across an ancient altar,
igniting the feast of continuance.