The Tigress of Cachtice
The Countess kissed the peasant’s lips,
bit them hard to let the blood, sewed
them shut when begging bored her.
The Countess lashed the common girl
to marble, quaffed the anguish at the tomb,
made a living effigy,
by alchemy and sorcery. Dark gifts
aroused Her Grace, by moonlight
divination drained the blood
to bathe in, craft her young and soft.
She lit a fire, flame-conjured virgins,
the carriage stopped, the open door.
Nikki Robson is from Northern Ireland and now lives in Scotland. She holds an MLitt in Writing Practice and Study from the University of Dundee. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies including Ink, Sweat and Tears, Under the Radar, The Dawntreader, Split Screen and Double Bill.