Danae, by Rachel Neve-Midbar
I waited every night for you, spread my blood across the bed like a blanket. Finally you arrived streaming in through the roof -- a golden rain of many leaves. When my maid caught you, you were gilt, so thin you melted on the tongue, dissolved if wet. When you fell on me your leaves became blood, my pillow blood, my blanket blood, the blood that ran both in & out from between my thighs. I feel your hand slow & rough along the soft line from arm to breast, my open mouth. Gold leaves light my hair, the lush smell of life rises like a cry into the room.
Poet and essayist, Rachel Neve-Midbar’s collection Salaam of Birds won the 2018 Patricia Bibby First Book Award and was published by Tebot Bach in 2020. She is also the author of the chapbook, What the Light Reveals (Tebot Bach, 2014, winner of The Clockwork Prize). Rachel’s work has appeared in Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Grist and Georgia Reviewas well as other publications and anthologies. Her awards include the Crab Orchard Review Richard Peterson Prize, the Passenger Poetry Prize and nominations for The Pushcart Prize. Rachel is a current PhD candidate at The University of Southern California where her research concerns menstruation in contemporary poetry. She is also editor of Stained: an anthology of writing about menstruation for the AuntFlo2020 Project. More at rachelnevemidbar.com
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