washer

Catching sight of my
self in the bathroom mirror
I know the muted horror
of stumbling on portents —
as damning as the washer
at the stream, she who beats
out the blood of the witness,
that will soon shed itself
according to omen —

I meet my own basilisk-
dark gaze calmly, as my
hands continue to scuff
at the blood that bears witness
to my recurring death-wound.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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