Between Bruises & Blooms

The flame dances
like it has heard
a joke
the living
will never understand.

Wax slips slowly
onto old wood.

Outside,
the crows
are still dreaming.

Inside,
I stir honey
into black coffee
and write
the names
of women
history called dangerous

simply because
they refused
to become quiet.

The witching hour
is not haunted.

It is holy.

It is the cathedral
where forgotten women
finally hear
their own voices.