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  • Hannah Hinsch

Procne

My sister’s cries

hounded me.


Virgin-blood seeped

into my bed

like spilled wine,

offering itself as proof:

look. See what he did.


Her voiceless mouth

arranged the words

like I had arranged myself,

wrapped in silk pink as

rose-hearts to wait

for him, his

hungering tongue.


Mouth full,

she choked on syllables

and shreds of flesh—

red spattered on her

hurried fingers as she

wove, making quick work

with fine thread.


I read and knew,

lips wrapped around a

bird’s caw

as we leapt into night.


My call is hoarse

beside hers—

her song is liquid moon,

quicksilver and catching.


I trace it

wing upon wing.

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