Size / / /

My crumbling walls are etched with voice:
hieroglyphs depicting song, wisdom, cruelty,
fusing cries and screams not hers.

Bodily fluids stained my floors as paint,
dark joys sealed, lacquering her soul.
Six hundred fell by her hand, she who loved me.

My grounds hide now, as they then, aging bones.
I became my lady's prison after trial,
restraining her desires, ensuring desolation.

Praying for revenge and light, she sang
and rambled as though they interchanged,
twisted dark with salvation water.

When the sun casts egress shadows on my face
she remains, silhouette searching, insatiable,
gazing at the village below.

No women from nearby come as tourists,
though some may be curious to glimpse her
just in case rumor is fact.




Jennifer Ruth Jackson can't draw or act, so she writes poems and short stories. Her work has been published in Star*LineFlashes in the Dark, and Kaleidoscope Magazine.  When she's not writing, you can catch her playing video games or making jewelry. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and their houseplant, Hubey. Find her on the web at http://www.everythingitntales.blogspot.com.
Current Issue
15 Aug 2022

You turned and Hailé was hunched by the counter, holding the Rift in his bare stomach together with his hands.
Their eyes trace the curves of our gears / like birds eyeing the shoreline and we / recite the songs our makers wrote
During recess, we would fight all the time.
Wednesday: Braking Day by Adam Oyebanji 
Friday: Appliance by J. O. Morgan 
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