Intimate, like creation.
As close as the encasement of the womb,
or the slide of one body into another. Or out.
As close as the slow baring of bones to
the earth, beneath the apple tree.
My sigh in your ear.
The sinuous orgasm of a serpent;
wet and undulating
squeezing and contracting
along the length and curve of me.
Naked, fragile, leafess in my veracity;
my many true stories and faces,
I dine on verisimilitudes. Wrap my body, my legs,
my mouth around them. Squeeze
them to death and swallow them whole.
My pythonic, sybil-self; knowing not always who
I’ve challenged, what proud authority.
Knowing not who I’ve disabused of a fnite Garden.
Knowing not what avenging agent will cast me
out, decapitate me, or rape me.
Or, restrict me for selfsh, small worship.
I am blind. I go on more ancient senses.
But I am a vision. Look away. Lest you be drawn into me
with the knowledge of little deaths, and Death.
I am a void, and I multiply rapidly, for this
is my vengeance. For each fury that is
murdered, a triple She emerges.
With a spontaneous fre. Erupting, volcanic blood
slithering, liquid, down the mountain.
From an open, spitting oven.
The scorching cunt of the Great Lady.
Burning a molten snake-path of shame and power.
Flooding your town.
Intimate, like destruction.
Like the left-behind dinner plates
on a family table. Like it was only
one hour ago. The ash-ages-preserved meal,
waiting still. Embracing bodies mummifed, clasping entwined.
Oh, the terror that must have been.
And the love that must have bloomed right then.