Alorah Welti | poetry

Red mistress, candlemaker,

I see you in Delgany again,

riding Mary Magdalene’s black mare

all the way to England.

I’d live there too, honey,

if Persephone would let me swing it.

What an aching language,

what a fertile set of stairs.

Red-haired myrrha, 

wounded to bleed the gum.

I know it is insensitive to speak of such things.

Forgive me, priestess, 

I’ve heard that in the hollow death, 

everything is the worst thing;

the silence, the sound, their delicate loam.

I tried to dress you in amnion skins, 

in layered veils of chorion heavy enough 

to keep the babies in

but I was unborn then, 

and you hadn’t yet taught me 

how to tie the knots and pray the colors.

It is better now.

Half animal, half instrument–

I don’t remember what it’s like 

make a pact with the piano,

but I’ve made a pact with you.

You are my red inheritance, Tori.

A woman’s gift,

truer than all the others.

So let’s go to that other country of yours

and speak of Lucifer and lust.

Let’s weave the heat and weigh our longings

in Ereshkigal’s living room.

We can laugh and sing for her, 

and for all the girls yet to come.