It was the panther
she reached for.
My mother gave it to her.
Before she took her first breath
it bit her
in her cradle, in besotted arms,
no protection afforded (VISA’s terms
of use) from shadowed purity
from fatal slumber.
It took her a way
and then away.
The way back was a narrow gate,
blood of the Immortal in the mortal
through whom she found her freedom.
on a blade, she lives,
a trust unbroken,
bless that day.
Continue reading “The Curse”