Dear Spying Soulmate,
I know you hold a red right hand,
but what you will not understand
is I see now a ten of swords
where your magic wand wards off words.
You can’t an angel read, less cage.
All utterance you rearrange
puffs her soul out of each bell-jar page.
Dropping into her deep, dank grave
to suck out her angel’s soul’s grace
will not uproot Elisha’s new face–
for angels have no bones, no brace.
Just lean into her left-wing embrace.
Black Cat Words 