Behind blue nightshades, the Indigo Child suffers
a bedeviling hex from the Moon that mangles his spine.
He must dissipate his skin by dint of fracture as bonesetter
for breaking the broken in his own hunkered blades.
His shaky columns exposed and heart doubled over –
he came to bare, to compose his wounds prayerfully,
“God may be seeding wings tonight”.
If he cannot extract their tines, deafening Furies
will wolf down his spirit’s gilded wares and bellow
his remains into ashen wisps, as would elegies tell
the death of Orestes at sunrise.
So the boy poet authors his ravages and
slithers out bad spirits before his desk
for the bludgeoning of his pen.
I felt his wings in the mist,
The Indigo Child who fiddles folklore and myths
beneath his bloodied fingertips before darkness fades,
for something to show come morning, though,
Blue behind nightshades.