Absinthe December

In the whispering caves,

hidden under the northern Ireland hills,

way before you were born mdear,

and I was oh so much younger then,

the ravens taught me

their magic languages,

ancient spells

had been passed

down from

the oldest of the trees

still living on the planet.

I don’t need

to fit in any of

your boxes,

my brother taught me that,

the idea that

I could be loved,

freak that I am,

creep in the night

that could see through

the crawlspaces

in your brain,

taste energy

like licking up

absinthe from a spoon

on a rainy evening

in December.