Lanugo,
Shedding wisterias.
Martyrs in furs
march in birthing pains;
Molting.
Thousands of feet shuffle
Under a coffin –
Quiet.
Blue lips dangle,
Groping for inevitability.
Pale hide taut across
The fingernails,
Waiting.
Something stirs,
Pushing out
Unarmed, unborn velvet
Cloistered in a Friesian’s mane;
A one-eyed blink.
I neigh
To wake him up; black tar
Braids my brows with
Strings tied underground;
Our arms one, membraned
Wings unfold,
Hesitant.
We are not us; he is
Soot racing after
Hooves crushing carrions;
I sit across,
Smooth-legged, lashes tight,
Taking out my final match –
A flick tries
To shave the panthers off my breasts:
Blessed
Rose of keratin, seal
My cleft palate
With a wooden brush.
My moans grind, lips part,
Eyes shut on a crumbling leaf;
My blackness and I, prostrate, lay
On dried manure checkered with
Sprouting
Knee-high baby hair.
