protecting herself with a blue bead
on a silver string, alternating cycles,
strands of amber spherule, ingesting
them on off days before
she lights ivory candles in a file;
each one blows out … malevolent presence.
There’s a clover patch outside infinity
fairies tend to it every day,
bringing her batches of
Balder the Beautiful,
god of joy and gladness,
sits in an armchair amidst confusion;
fly precisely through the air.
Death ensues as
earth turns dark, stars have
closed their eyes.
*Balder the Beautiful is a Norse myth about Friday the 13th.