There are kinder goddesses than Kali to kiss
Holy mother of the dark night
Where you howl and scream along the passage alone
The place she held your hands, but let you go.

Even in the morning she is there
Brandishing whips of thorns and nettles
Even in the kind spring, she is the wrinkled berries on the rotting floor
The entrails of field mice on the tarmac
The ticking dandelion clocks that remind you no joy ever lasts

She levers open your ribcage and slaps salt on all the wounds that tried to hide
Her mouth opens: the whole universe is black
You clutch and plead at her skirts, where the skullbones of foxes and crows rattle against the bones of man
You plead with her but she burns the world behind you

Spitting ashes from your mouth you paste over the hurts that won't stop bleeding
Kneel on the burning embers of the blackened soil

She embraces you in her strong arms
Mother that she is

Growls: Open your eyes.

And you sing Kali devotional.