And what is a woman
but a cathedral of wounds—
fostered in nacre and nightshell, is it any wonder
we learn the red of our mouths so quickly?
Each morning I wake to find fresh reserves of cruelty
within me, like flakes of dried blood lingering
underneath a torn fingernail. Was this the gift you intended—
a black pulse, endlessly beating through the stitches
with which you wove me together, from neck to navel,
collar to cunt, an electric web of malintent
so tightly constructed that to pluck
a single hair from its nested brethren
would bring forth instantaneous collapse.
What crumbs could I gather
from the thicket of my mind
that did not fall from your mouth?
I may call myself silver echolatory prayer,
eschatological tug-of-war, but I know I am
what you have made me. A throne of arrows.
Gentle rasp of come-hither.
A chandelier of antlers,
glistening in a dark room with no windows.
I pour all the slivered glass into a jar,
call it holy, holy, whole.
