Night opens at the point of sparked obsidian.
Autumn spiders whistle into the falling wings
of insects, of those who drone no more, who rain
over us, whirling away in whispers of silver light
& oakbones, all broken at the sight of the chasm
& the sidereal blank.
Clouds roll forth moonstone grey, brooding.
Buried under the oakbones, a mammoth slug
slumbers, overgrown with fur of milk, all silky.
Sunset burns our horizons. Now,
underneath the firewood, nothing—
only the meadow
leading into the woods.
After the festival they found Miss Oakbones
staring into the blank, her liquefying face still
hers. They say she grinned on the doorstep
in her crown of fire, waiting,
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American poet from the Pacific Northwest. Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, her work has appeared in FIVE: 2:ONE, Sundog Lit, A-Minor Magazine, Empty Mirror, Menacing Hedge, Barren Magazine, & elsewhere. She served as the March 2018 Guest Editor for Burning House Press. Find her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand.