Sibyl Twilight

Dusk’s rabid thighs parting for the icy moon
chill a river, dropping silver from a torn horizon

each beam of her a cube pried from heaven’s tray
falling into her followers’ glassy eyes, consumed too

late to illumine their way.

Clouds, like antelopes folding their toes, kneel, unfurling a bride
swelling with leonine indecision, her handful of bees

combing honey from the sky as constellations of her goddess-sisters
lay in waiting, stitching pearls of milk onto dresses

made for catechumens to lay in

on their mouth-eaten whetting day. Sharpened minds
block head, unzipping instead, to make straight

away their leering desire, and get prayed-to with canonical patience
craving critical sayings breeze-shaken from leaves—fruit the men all

said she shouldn’t read—she bites into and believes.