THE POEMS
You fell asleep on the tiles,
a translucent peacock loomed,
your sex opened and let out
a very blue, very high flame.
You wore a split veil, that morning.
Silent, nailed to her chair, the seated woman writes. She cracks. The poems fidget, slip their fingers: they seek to enter. Perched on her shoulder, the poems whisper in her ear. She captures their messages: "I love the sacred contortions you offer me." The poems protest: "You're squeezing us too hard: careful, pet."
More than descriptors, the words behave as commands or moves in a game—and the voice of the seated woman rises to play.