kiss pressed to Her brow / mouthful of serpent's-blood / black against cold moon

the Dying Serpent is a hearth god if the hearth sucks enough

on the wall of the abandoned house there lives a snake. trash-pieces of mirror are pasted about her head, and her fangs are bloody red. the long shape is fraying at the edges, eaten at by weather and the creep of new graffiti, but she remains and has remained. along the foot of her wall are candles, old candles, new candles, slumping candles, straight-backed candles, and glass that fell from her halo. one candle burns and wavers in the wind. she remains, and will remain.

the black flame, the black flame! lightless, inextinguishable, my Mother's crown and heart!