Eating Crow
After Reading Ted Hughes A Devon autumn chases ghosts down alleys, Shura should have been our lost baby, the one flowering from the toilet the day you crumpled your face, pasty- white like the old hive, resurrected with blue-heart eyes. I was Prospero. I was Caliban. I was the filthy-nailed stand in for Daddy. Already, my tongue bled lies, my ****— thick with honey, my vows of wild-escape. […]
Melancholy Hyperbole 