The Waning Woman

I love them like wolves, like a widow of the future; I love them
with scissor arms cradling their heads, so when first light strikes
I may bring them to my maw of pinchers and then behead.

I adorn them for their featherless wings, their door hinges
creaking; I worship them in sacrificial rituals of shaking,
seizing in violence beneath their bellies whilst tasting the dark.

Lovers lie. They carry the weight of me, groaning upon their back.
In the sweat I feel the slipping of tiny minnows dropping, slopping
into a puddle by the bedside crying out like lambs I borne.

I love them into bitterness, into brokenness; I fib through the
penetration of the sine qua non I lay down as a throw. I wrap up
and shrink my shoulders so to fit through the cervix of their hope.

I string every limb together, and then swing them out over the water.
I rollick around them, all them hanging men and slip into a dress; I
kneel down with mouth wide so to gargle all the mess like the rivulet.

I haven’t one tooth that glows, for I haven’t the passage,
message to bleed in needful things. I haven’t a hollow,
a hallway to run. I haven’t. Not ever. I blink without sunset.

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