Baba Yaga He needs to learn to respect your no; He needs to learn to hear your yes. If he does not let him go; You do not want a vile head on your chest. Unleash your Baba Yaga, the one Who leaves scars. You will rise from the red-hot sun And no one can tear you apart. Believe me; You are ready to forge your throne. In you there are the seven seas Beneath your growing skin of stone. Your Perseus Face Dream after dream you split my Soul like a glass of rum. I spend the night by the bed, Restless, seeing your Perseus face. But I do not have Medusa’s head Nor any body to offer you. You are a man in the shadow Of a lost fire. How many times Have you seen the blaze die inside Your hands? It is difficult to let you Live in my burnt, crimson mouth. My love is not a room of perhaps. From blow to blow, you leave the leftovers: Guilt, sadness, pain. You try to pretend They are not yours. The phantom of oblivion Haunts you. And you provide him nourishment. You self-consume the woes that you regret. Alone, beyond the patches of light. Owl-Eyed Soul — woodland belly filled with Secrets and ancient vampires. Mind — a feral moor for monsters Of all shapes. Eyes — two bottomless wells of Light, rain, and thunder. Mouth — an abyss of songs, a Labyrinth of whispers. Lament of Beira Women We are dying! We are dying, mother! Lungs — vessel of opaque air and withered roses. Can you Hear us breathing? We have no time. Our wombs filled with Death and bark. We are dying! We are dying, mother! They do not comprehend our woes. Our brother’s body does not Weigh in their arms. Here, in the embalmed dimness, the corpses Accumulate. We are dying! We are dying, mother! Artemis turns from us. We dream about slopes where once we Stood. Today, we are blood of young and old women upon Loam. Our birch grove calls us home. We are dying! We are dying, mother! Ghosts sing to us and we run to them. We walk to the Harvest moon. This is our battle, this is our lament: the Lament of beira women. Saturated Eyes Where do you keep your tears, When they leave your saturated eyes? Perhaps in your Zeus-touched soul, Watering it until tulips blossom. Those tears are unspoken fears Drifting on your lips. You adjust your mouth to smile Amongst the day you curse. Her Many Shapes Do not tell your daughter not to wear Red lipstick or dresses above the knee. Instead, teach your son to respect her as The goddess she was born to be. She is Nyx; her eyes are starry skies And shadows follow her feet. Let her live in her many shapes Where the dawn and the dusk meet. Everything is dark: her hair, her nails, The mountains she steps. She summons cursed winds But she is far from being the mother of death.
Raquel Dionísio Abrantes is a writer from Portugal. She has a Bachelor’s Degree and a Master’s Degree in Cinema from Universidade da Beira Interior. Raquel gave a Master Class in Writing of Scripts about Narrative Structure. Her writing has appeared on Write or Die Tribe, Better than Starbucks, The Pangolin Review, New Hand Lab and Fleas on the Dog. She writes for Read Poetry. More about her work can be found on her Instagram.
This is her first feature on The Fictional Café.