3 poems by Basilike Pappa

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Her Purple Twilight

She is a witch: not sure about the word “wicked,” as this hasn’t been confirmed. Born of a pair of spirits, one that was a cat and one that was a fish. Not that this is unusual for a witch, of course. She walks through the city of lost keys. You may see her on the streets, in rooms, on rooftops. She is a witch, by all means: dreaming of trees in a wild place only she can see. It does sound a little like some kind of death from which she always returns. They are scared of her doing that, as if it were a bad thing. I could go on and on about the mystery she is. No one knows her name or where she lives – not even me. It is whispered she buries her lovers in the wild place, rocks marking the spots, but this hasn’t been confirmed. After all, a witch’s greatest gift is her ability to forget. You may see her by your bed, stabbing her finger into your thoughts. Tactless way to serve a cause, but it’s okay for a witch to be a little blunt. She is.

Our Dark Midnight

When I went to bed, she came back again / and told me of her last encounter with the wolf / her face in the moonlight like my own. / I woke up in a cold sweat / holding my knife / and the wolf was beside me / big eyes to see me better / big mouth to swallow me whole. / She’s told me stories before / of the wolf in the woods / of the wolf in the streets / I knew / it wouldn’t do to fight him with a knife. / She said: “Let me hear you growl.” / She said: “This is the wolf’s coat, put it on.” / But I’ve listened well to her stories before / of the wolf in the woods / of the wolf in the streets. / I’ve been bitten by the wolf / and I have run away from the wolf / and I have been the wolf. / It left stains on my clothes / it left footprints on the roads. / It felt like I was cut in half. / I knew a knife wouldn’t do / I let it slip from my hand. / To fight the wolf, let out a loud / bright / unblinking / laugh.

My Bright Dawn

Yesterday I was the moon:

half-lighting your fingers

as they moved

like mist in a mirror;

growing full of your silence.

Today I am the sun:

I walk naked to your funeral.

Basiliké Pappa lives in Greece. Her work has appeared in 11 Mag Berlin, Rat’s Ass Review, Dodging the Rain, Eunoia Review, Surreal Poetics, Bones Journal for Contemporary Haiku, Sonic Boom, Visual Verse, Timeless Tales and Intrinsick, and is forthcoming in Heron Tree, Sledgehammer Lit and Glitchwords.