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Luci Whitelake

A strange blood 
fills my cuticles
and tints my fingertips
with soft carnations,
one for each digit.

I did not register
this redness or this pain,
centuries in the blooming,

until I ungloved my hands
of their cashmere detachment,
glamorous cage

at midnight. Looking
in the mirror, past the mirror,
I see I was the bloodletter –

tyrant mother unleashing
cruel red torrents
on marble floors,

I pooled my trophies;
they snapped and lolled
like the necks of dolls.

I did it unflinching,
with what felt like willing.
Now the fates are summoning
something dark
above my head.

I hear it humming.
Luci Whitelake writes from Melbourne. She is mostly interested in documenting the appearance of the mythological and the eerie in her everyday life.