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.