Epics aren’t a thing of the past — they are still getting made.
It was I, Your Honor. I who left the marigolds
in the sheets of her bed, the mice in her morning milk.
You can call it witchcraft if you like.
But when the horizon broke open into yolk,
she was better for it.
She ran for the trees, through poplar and oak,
dress waving like all her dead children.
She was gone from him, I’ll tell you that.
What I do was never spoken of.
Just my darkness, how far I was willing to go.
Your Honor, she wanted to flee and not be led,
world red before her without blood,
husband in her doorway with an ax.
Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole , and more. She has won national medals…
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