Poetry: Selections from Eden Capulet

 What I have done will come back to haunt me

The axe divided the soft and the hard in two swings, and the cranium lay open on the

hardwood floor. What I have done will come back to haunt me. Soft, velvet blood washed

over her feet in tidal waves as I watched the macabre scene. Her iris died and clouds covered

the twitching sky. Could we blame the altitude? The turn of the ground? Could we blame the

axe or maybe each other? We washed the red down the chirping stream and threw the linen in

the fire. The naked flame couldn’t clean our skin even with its sapphire center. We’d better

pray what goes down the drain doesn’t come back through the faucet. Lilac loving in the

motel shower, cicadas perched on the bathroom sink—July was hard to beat. Blue-tiled,

red-stained bathroom. Tender-taken life. Kitty-corner from the vestal gun barrel hung our

contrition; its periphery stained. Axe in the shed. Anthelion spinning in the sky. She stirred

her coffee counter-clockwise and I walked backward into the bedroom. What I have done will

come back to haunt me.

Egypt

If your heart stopped beating under the scorching sun out in the deserts, they would have

stopped mine too.

An extension of you, a must in the next life, that’s what I am. I am the quiver in your voice

and the expansion of your lungs. I am the brittle bones caging your heart and the sea-green

veins only visible when you turn your wrists. A misplaced part of you that never found its

way back. The writing in the tomb would never know if the bodies molded together had ever

been apart, for with time we would fuse, tissue and bone. The fragment of your femur that

never healed would grow into mine, and together we might just be whole again. In life and

death, I have been eternally devoted to the rising and falling of your chest. It is my ebb and

flow, my high and low tide, my turning sky. Each pinprick worth remembering, each sadness

worth feeling only to know you inside and out. This is my calamity, my turmoil, and my

devastation. To know you fully I must give up myself.

If your heart stopped beating under the scorching sun out in the deserts, they would have

stopped mine too.

The first little death/The very last breath

Tresses of gold

Confess his untold

Never to matter

Never to hold

Mouth of cyclone

In south overflown

Always indifferent

Always unknown

Born from desire

Ever deny her

Sever the ribbons

Sever the pyre

Death made to feel

From breath of appeal

Sound the dying knell

Sound Achilles’ heel

Burgundy bruise

Come violet and blues

A touch made tarnished

A touch made contused

Down the ravine

Abound the serene

In limbo entombed

In limbo between

Ichor illumes

To strike her with bloom

To falter forthwith

To falter too soon

In afterglow

The chapter is closed

Never to matter

Never to hold

Eden Capulet is a young writer from Sweden who loves the morbid and the soft the same and prefers to write when she has a pressing homework deadline she's trying to ignore. She's inspired by nature, having lived near forests worth exploring all her life.