“call the necromancer”: Four Poems by Leia Penina Wilson for Haunted Passages

volta OR these snapdragon flower seed pods look like little skulls because it’s all imagination & horror baby

can you
imagine    i like
to look
at myself
& i never    become obsessed—

would you
like to look
at my gothic:

all

the virgin eyes in the world
are made

of glass    —horror

—horror    —horror    accumulated knowledge

abstract: to erotic
with pleasure

to ward against
to war against
perseverance
preservation    how terrible

how terrible
is evil
really.

volta OR the psychology of the pyromaniac

was! it! revenge!

attempting to undo myself
i left you behind    sister

there is no object so soft as shame

—capitalism’s one true dream: forsaken    son of the amazons
i might have left you dead    yet
by jove    i thought instead to make
your meat useful

no apology with merits challenges
that fatal bond    expectation

red queen fertility goddess almost oldest shameless gurl
of course you would advise carelessness    i admire
your bravery    however distant a landscape hard remembered
carelessly so that nothing not green will survive

carving red meat ready cunt

& you
disappointed by that advice
again am i to be spared by mistake!

my dear march my maddest hare beloved evocator    from what
tradition persists adequate ventriloquists

haha any white man could tell you
the sounds of nature (too chaste
for my taste)

—love me    would you love me—

(strange    you’ve become my own
mythic

at the entrances it didn’t matter how many pieces of clothing i left
the wind never carried

(begin a howl    *a chorus of cunts begins a howl*

holy bitter madness rabid
holy bitter madness rabid
holy bitter madness rabid))

volta or her cruel body laid-up lovely in bed is filled with the spirits of many dead who’ve died with regret & are suffering

are there any physicians in the room—

are there any linguists in the room—

you saw didn’t you—

the body sunk to the bottom of the lake—

the spirits that ate the body sunk to the

bottom of the lake—

you’ll never find the heart—

it’s between she’ll weaken & she’s finally dead—

sealed in the tunnel’s darkness—

would you do something that selfish—

(realistic)

are there any professional gardeners in the

room—

any real magic users—

is there anyone who knows the true colors

of a unicorn’s horn—

who has tasted rat coated in honey—

is there anyone—

is there anyone—

who knows anything—

about poisonous animals—

plants—

volta OR lacking true vocalizations my wings make a metal-on-softer-metal sound during flight

“poetry is” “the bloodjet”

“can you”
“pour” “it”
“into me”    “my
wetness” “lacks”
“the blood”        “the poetry”
“the” “poet’s” “blood”
“the blood” “of the poets”

“could” “you” “pour” “the poetblood” “into me”
“is this” “the act”        “of exchange” “after all”

“it” “is” “an open” “wound”

“my heart” “excited” “covers”
“my mossy” “passage” “redwet”
“redemptive organ”    “i” “get disturbed”

“run on” “two feet” “livelyeyed” “wet”
“my lungs” “with wine” “wet” “yours” “too”

“our moist” “lungs” “our wet lungs” “moisten”
“wetting” “wetten” “wettening”

“do you” “want” “want”

Leia Penina Wilson is an afakasi Samoan poet hailing from the Midwest. Her work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Dream Pop Press, Split Lip Magazine, Birdfeast, and OmniVerse. When not reading trashy paranormal romance novels, she bakes, casts, hexes, plays Magic the Gathering.

Image: ranker.com

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