give it to me, God
can be a risky request.
immured in soft crystal, I felt
on the verge of crossing
borders and mostly unhinged
all winter.
my hair was combed,
my lips were never chapped,
I wore blush every day and
stockings with no
runs.   my tongue  was tied
completely
so no one asked
what I may have needed.

chased an impartial sun
half of December
and spent the other half
shrouded,
soaked in flower essences.      I preferred
helenite draped in tiger’s eye so I’m more
sudden hot eruption
than slow boil
but tonight I try more
benevolent blooms and pausing
and
watch my flimsy, cherry-dipped
ylang-ylang scented fingertips
shake unsteadily
and without any observable provocation,
suddenly stop untying my velvet collar,
suddenly shy away from the mirror,
suddenly lunge and land
on my ball of green obsidian
delicately scraped from the bottom of some
dormant volcano;
still mired in sudden climax,

rinsed and smoothed for my
handling pleasure. 
it was
heart  activating
and protective
and my heart;

poor, twisted carnivore
always unsure
can shift her way into a
permanent snarl
with protection.

I stomp into the other room and
shatter the rosy bowl
he let me borrow.
leave it broken, shiny
pink on the kitchen’s peeling
linoleum.
strip my skin of clothes and scent in
a hot steam bath
  i’m idling
and let the pieces
rest.
watch my step.

my place is
cracked and
full of ghosts
all bled:
a carnelian web
that sits atop a post.
you see my long legs
dangling before you see
the rest of me.

“Arachne”