A picture of me from a Halloween party last night in a gorgeous Victorian mansion on Franklin street. I feel like an old faded photograph these days. xo, Erinia Jourdanski, Semiotician to the Stars
Another prose poem in process…
Our Mouths Burn Little Bridges
If, if I could only speak. Beyond this bullying, threats of burn and fire, and never again those words that throw me into birth pains as they illuminate the transom of my mouth. There are no mysteries in wounds. In blisters and graft. There are only sharks and the taste of blood. My tongue, the little viper, split and hiss, wasp and wane, do sleep and build night structures to take the place of what is lost when I scorch my own earth.