Incubus

Your dead grandmother hangs you by the skin
in the kitchen. You bleached yourself white
and are still unclean. Vertigo.

Gravy and dead rabbit.
You are too skinny for sixteen.
And where are those good family breasts?

She jabs you with her wooden spoon,
dusting your bones with ostrich feathers—
Generations of women.

You may be depressed.
Would you like some pills? A husband?
Your woman-loving’s a phase.

The villagers gather at the door
while you lean stark naked against the shelf,
long and blonde and perfumed.

The covers on your bed are asylum white
like your veil—asylum white. Salt bath,
yarrow leaf. She gifts you with her broom.

Schätzli, Little Treasure. Potbellied men
are wiping their feet on your petticoat.
The butcher blows tobacco up your nose.

Grossi returns with a scrub bucket.
A priest, a prayer book, a rip in the fabric.
They are burning herbs and adorning you

with pig’s blood. Old whore carpet.
Hausfrau. The dead century calls.
You will stay stay stain here, ancestress.