Wednesday, June 13, 2012


You dressed in moth wings for dinner
Spiriting down the stairs in a flustered flight
your satin hands and eyes a feast glistening
Your smile etched in silk spun out of silk worms
devouring us like mulberries so as to weave more
as we sit, too stiff, or drunk or high to move
our mouths wide open each time you paint your lips
each move you make spinning us round and round
so we couldn’t find the door to escape
your finger curling inside of us, yanking at us,
turning us inside out with our own desire
a gift of the magi, a witch’s brew, or something more
we waiting for the moment when we can stir again
or breathe, or make out way out into the cool air
where our thoughts are our own thoughts
and not all of them thoughts of you.

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