BY Makena Metz
The Night Mother darns a cloak
of cobwebs. She weaves a dress
from swathes of silken darkness
and moonlight, stealing stars
to embellish sequins. Made and mended,
she feathers ravens, drawing eiderdown
through hair soft and fine. She paints
nails with poison, milking snakes
for death. Her lips, she coats in red,
powdering skin with bones she ground
in pestle and mortar. She walks the night,
sends shadows slithering into your home.
Her ethereal song lures you. With one kiss
she claims you. Weave your own cloak
with the souls of the dead. Her children
bleed beyond the woods.