ASHLEY MARES

Spellbound

There are flowers in my skull and soil
          underneath my tongue. Many things
dwell inside my bones: Hebrews believed demons
          brought madness—but when young
 
                                        girls placed dull knives to their
                              flesh, no spirits escaped—No,
                                        nothing can hide in the
                              body: because my body is the moon
 
grabbing hold of light. I did not know
          my bones needed shaping. No—I never
wanted to hold stars in my hand:
          feel the sharp point
 
                                        against my palm—prick
                              my finger against the sins of my mother.
                                        And yet—I still fall
                              into the ocean every night: still
 
blur at the edges at dusk
          when I kneel next to the bed
to pray: with my back pressed against
          the moon. Still trace
 
                                        the scars on my thighs: because
                              there’s a before I can’t remember.
                                        God is never pushed
                              from my bones: but what happens
 
when the mind turns against
          the body, says I want to feel more—
when bones can’t borrow
          beauty from old sin and
 
                                        the knife is resting
                              on the ocean floor—or the night sky, or in
                                        the other room. Sometimes
                                                  I can’t tell the difference between
 
living things and the
          sound of wind through leaves
but I can hear my own
          breathing under water.