Eight Lines on the First Plague
by C. Carter
Linen folded by the foam-flecked shore, she
sets her sandals on stained stones, and wades
into the shallows, fingering the reedy curtains aside.
These, the wages of sin, her second self calls
from her shoulder, din of wailing at last no more
than dying echoes from the mudbrick townscapes.
Her skin goes from tan to blazing red, lips tasting
the wounded god that bleeds his welcoming.
* * *
Cuitlamiztli Carter resides with his wife near the capital city of Texas.
What inspires you to write and keep writing? I’d like to leave enough material to delight or embarrass my great-grandchildren.
What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre? For homo sapiens, the world is not enough.