The Rain Queen

for Henderson

With my right hand I turned hot on
then left was used to stifle growth
possessed and live in soul-strung bonds
like bullets, named and gifted – wrote,
perhaps ignored, perhaps misjudged
(remove the wedge the sound will roll)
perhaps the foregone was my drug
since burning fiddles never served
the conscious appetite alone.
What rests, reclines dark-sensuous,
dark tongue that whispers the unknown
is right hand’s joy, and I possess
the blackest vision I could know
and think - what beauty darkness holds.