Become medieval when the rain starts –
put coins in my corset, they are pure gold & evil
and show the men using my Thanatos drive:

I could not care if they want me,
I could not care if they hated me alive.

Rather the leaf upon dress-******* much as
a muzzle, came from a box of cardboard slits
opening like lady-legs. I bribe the thrash with my

whispers & wheels, promise to soak up sky’s tears
but she certainly prefers the black ash haul.

I bring myself to the top of a volcano, its arc,
convinced that it cannot soot me,
not in the rain: such scorch is unreachable.

There is this protruding spiral in the center,
going dark, a pupil. It eats my hair-ribbon and I

sweat, but I am upon all terrains of the Earth
prepared to fall into a clutch, the gold stain my skin
before peeling by storms, how plague-like I seem.

Could be on my back when it implodes –
though my skirt would not appreciate the mess,
I think the idea fine. I am already pink, red’s better.

Wires and flushed cheeks will be what they find,
the men, knowing that I could not care.

And I did not; it was not less than a shot of
lightning stuck under a petticoat, frilled for nobody
but the volcano who turns ******* to embers.
the rain that beasts eyelashes to amputees.