The moonm a r j o r i e r o m m e l
is hiding out
in the cornfield.
He doesn't want us to know
he has scattered the bones of young girls
in the cattails at the river's edge.
But there is blood
on the maple leaves.
Already the hounds are shouldering
through the brush, startling coveys of birds,
a snake single-minded as the deed itself,
picked clean & gleaming.
Every year it comes down to this field, this riverbank.
The signal fires burn high,
& a new batch of virgins stares
into the moon's blasted face on the water,
into the murderous eyes
of the chilly stars.
Transfixed by faith or fear,
the beautiful ones step away
from their bones, leave their long hair
tangled with last year's sacrifices
among the weeds.
The moon crouches between the stalks.
His breath raises a fog
we can see for miles.
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