There’s something taking shape beneath the night’s long hair
I wish I wasn’t there to see it
crowns resting on the heads of all the devils
two hips and a sewn up corset
a valley like an open cage, a mouth with no eyes,
and the lips of a wild thing
curled to the toes and ten feet tall
I crawl to the tatters of the gorge, to the edges of
the dancing flames through the two-toned forest, belly-to-belly
with the scream, with the hairs of the whipping chains
and the knees of the stars that have no names
and the taunts of the crows that were taught
to ask no questions and wonder if this body is a lie,
and who—tell me—who has had to die, who has
caused—who would, to dream—who feasted
on the final apple, who poured the last crackling shot
of bourbon and knelt before that swollen tit, whose lucky eyes
burst like a final floating comet, who has ordered all
the treasures buried, who has exhausted the night
and unearthed her chains?
Who begged from the mouth that opened the cage
that lashed her in the wild hair?
Who can, look away? Who do, must? Tell me.
Who pursues her lips like hungry devils? Which one of you
kissed the lips that chopped the cherry tree? Tell me, boys.
And tell me, girls, who would deliver your eyes
from the bed? Who hunted the legs that split
the forest and devoured our grandmothers whole?
In the eyes. Look me in the eyes. Who carved the edges
of the asteroids, who crawled up the pits of the moon?
Who dealt the hands that fooled the gods into thinking
we were all born to be heroes, naked and unspillable?
The tick, the tick, the boom. Who comes then?
They and you and I. In an assembly line they carried
…can you smell it?
Her hands are on fire, and no one will stop the rain.
In the bramble. In the chorus of the leaves
and the bows of the heaven-sent,
she frees you still
and frees you will
And I’ll leap over the dancing beds of fire
until there is no more rain
You cannot take my mouth away
or pit it against the lions
I am a hunger strike
I feast on air