I see figures,
blue as the river,
running to a lake
where embers
extinguish.

Women sparkle, flit
in
ancient
groves,

trees moan
quietly,
creak
in the night.

Walk with me now,
things smell
musky,
burnt,
sulfuric.

Walk with me,
help me find them.

Across the river,
mirror images beckon
the stowaways.

The snake imitates a baby’s rattle
in strange ceremonies,
calls for mother,
but only
fathers
live here.

The lights in the forest
(cry.)

Summer sets the demons free.

Look what they have taken,
look what they have claimed:
the lost angels,
appropriated from the grave
by cloaks with
sharp teeth.

Lost Angels
by Molly Therese Bowes