Momma says that some girls are born for death,
they siphon honey from that dark hive, swell against
the bodies of their best friend, their brutal and bloodless
lovesick-longing taking shape, ripening with want
loving only one another, devoted only to the other
until their bodies garland the halls of that black house

              where your mother hangs like a tendril — Antigone,

your fate was the same, you were grown for the grave
with bloodlines of root rot and bald cypress swamp,
but without that animality of girlhood, the packhood
and pairing-off, even your sister would not follow you
into the blights of your birthright!
                                                                Friendless,
they found you crouching and singing over the body
of your brother, his body
emptied of blood-brother love
holy with dirt and your sister-hymns, until the men
tried to untangle your tenets and tear them away,
like a knot meant to be untied and teased out,
but you were implacable
        eyes wide open
               and your hands holding so much hurt — Antigone,
I will find you at last in that damp dark cave
where my body will hold your body until you decide
         to unspool
                 like soft
                       ribbons
         of wool