Poet at the Desk

Pusher of the pen
Caked in flush,
Carving out the characters of emotions breeding
In the dark bowels of us, in the dark
Matter of our dust, in a
Womb so sunken by the weight of waters
A woman is a goddess only when she is spent,
Dawned by a near death and so
One draws her.

Cowled.
Coiled finger,
A drape on thin bones, but
Strong, a rich pyre roaring in her gown.

Slick ink wriggles on the white,
Striking nothing and sparking some light.

Cool woman, crone and wicked, holy and moving
On haunches that send leopards bowing,
Shifting bodies into a passage for her to give birth
To a temple and breathe
Life into mirages, into bellies. A fat lip snarl of beauty.

The pen nib
Is a tit, and the mind suckles it surely.
Stripping it of all its juices and then—

Cruel finish.
It goes dry.

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