A S H L E Y   M A R E S

​​H E R M E N E U T I C   C H A O S   J O U R N A L

Ashley Mares has a bachelor's in English Writing from Azusa Pacific University. She is in the process of completing her J.D in Monterey, CA, where she lives with her Husband. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Turtle Island Quarterly, Absinthe Poetry Review, Sweet Tree Review, and Slim Volume.


Even the first born of the dead
charges his angels with error – 

like when they fly too close
to the water and their wings brush
my words out of place. 

With my bones in hand 
I perish

when the shadows unleash 
their claws. In all our 

conversations we never
spoke of this. We spoke

of moths whose wings tore 
off after they confessed 

their sins. We said 
if they were innocent they 

wouldn't be on our window sill
getting drenched by mist. We aren't

to blame by speeding up 
the process. Their hiss would fly 
away atop their wings if

it could. Seeing the
rising and falling 
of your chest is a break

in the chain because I hold
your heart in hand. It speeds up

before it slows. If I look closely
I see the dampness of your scars.