Saturn's Daughter

poetry by Jessica Drake-Thomas

When he was out, sailing the world,
I gathered clumps of dandelions,
blew away their elderly heads,
wished for his homecoming.

Be careful what you wish for
when you assume
that father is synonymous
with kind protector,
for that is a myth.

He was always hungry.
He ate up everything,
until it was all gone.

Nothing left, but me.

His hand wrapped around my waist, 
and he bit down on my skull,
Ripping it from the stump of
my neck, like jelly candy.
He spat it out, then it rolled
into the corner. 

I sat at the table, headless,
blood staining my dress,
as I did math problems like
a good girl.

He was annoyed
when I bled on the paper,
pronounced my fives misshapen
my twos illegible
made my stiffening fingers
redo it.

At the morgue, they fixed my smile
like a butterfly on a pin,
put on my church clothes,
ignored my final requests.   

•

FORGIVENESS

In the silence of churches,
during the deep of the night,
when he thinks
only the hornless god hears,

he begs for it— one white tulip.

He looks for this,
an unnatural flower,
as a sign from his god,
that he’s been forgiven  

for breaking the universe
making the mistake of
playing a god himself.

Only I am listening—
the one wronged. 

I’m a cruel goddess,
withholding white tulips.
I send him crimson,
mocking him
with the only color
he’s stained the earth,

while I bathe in tubfuls of petals,
soft as spilt milk
against my heathen skin.

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Jessica Drake-Thomas is a poet, novelist, and book blogger. Her work has been featured in Coffin Bell Journal, Grimoire Magazine, Three Drops From A Cauldron, and others. She is the author of Burials, a collection of poems forthcoming from CLASH Books in 2020.