Body as Fault Line

Transparency and the fright of even just the thought of that. The fear of becoming paper thin, translucent. Sheer.

Your eyes, though black, seem to open up the only doorway of light. Clear, bright, uncanny, probing. All-seeing. A terrifying calmness.

There is a way you have unlike any other. You are not of this world but beyond it, even as you destroy and construct it all around yourself. As you please. Twist of your ribs. Choke in my heart. A forest of majestic trees, bowed in fierce night wind.

A strawberry moon rises up from ice-blue ocean. Reflections of her gold streaming face in the glass. Looking glass, looking; single eye, slow blinking as it turns, four billion years making passes against the infinite sky.

I light a candle in my darkened room. I breathe deeply, purposefully, feeling the air invade my chest. The words of Anne Sexton open on a wooden altar, “I have gone out / a possessed witch / haunting the black air / braver at night”

My body as fault line. The joy of your hands pulling up my secrets by their filthy roots. Exposure. Violation as rapture. Rings of Saturn, Moons of Jupiter, Wells of Blood. Halos of light flickering in dark gardens. Hovering spirits which moan and seethe.

Wrestling this feathered being caged within me. My little wrists. My little claws alone with my smooth skin. Brush of evil. Stroke of deviance, hallowed and grim.

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