Cassandra

I have seen many men toast their bloodlines

at this altar,

eldritch nightmare in the nightclub

drawing blades on the dance floor,

prophecies made clear

in the sweat of the sunrise.

The gods seek me out here

then drink themselves blind

to forget how a snake’s hiss lingers in the ears,

or the way my lips taste

when I curse them for names they

blessed and buried in the same streak of moonlight,

my throat is stained with vodka and bile

as I charge on towards the dawn,

bawling dead men’s songs to stone ceilings and

screaming to the burning sky.

Lucy Whalen (she/her) is a poet based in Lancaster, England, who writes with a focus on mythology, grief and nostalgia. She has had work published across twenty magazines, reviews, and journals, and in her free time she enjoys pole fitness and reading Jane Austen on repeat.