O’ January, what a cold wind you blow
to the bone, deathly, the sacrifices
her
her
Her,
always the ladies
you scoop with frost & fang
she did good, ol’ Henri-Brains
(Her) miss Black-Paw
grandmother of the kitchen
that ground the stone
how many times you’ve come to take
St. January, deacon of darkness
blood gate like a colon pushing
she threw that blood-clot up
one
two
three,
her howling called the
ghostly beast of the timeless time
until the moon shined blue
now I grind the stone
alone for
her
her and,
ol’ Henri-Brains
eighteen years she howled
this hallowed ground
Miss Black-paw now
sleeps in the cedar grove
with an egg and a
January dream of spring
my sweet kitchen Queen.
