You are
blood in Eve's burrow, where
shells of Venus could not
bite through,
could not dry
the paps of pretty words
of pretty babies, or pretty girls.
This is rising.
The Delphic eyes, the
black, black crow biting
my lips. To spread, to envelope
these legs; my Winter,
lurking in his white cape
not ever knowing, admitting
he swallows rain
as my tongue curls.
And in time, a
mouth will be hollowed
for swollen lilies;
dead fathers-- who
like ordinary men,
beat their wives and kiss
their daughters as if
nothing
has passed the murmurs, the cherry bombs,
a whimper, emptiness.
Not even my cold, black
stare:
Mother, willing, will I die
parched or sharp
with this needle nonsense of
words, words, words?
Pining for another sip
her fingers lace with them,
red-rose *******, no
Father, no, no
not even the shrewd cloak
of my black,
black hair.