Innards indecision twists
wither from within; it’s
winter, so conviction hits
in her window when, without,
winds are off thundering—
snow for illustration sits
plentiful, colouring thick
her stomach’s pit with pale;
pictured to depict her ill.
Perfect for pity is her
midriff bared; beneath tears
a devil’s pen clawing forth
paper-white prayers to ink
into her there, saying,
This is the maiden fair; this
is the way in; tear its skin—
(scratching to sniff her hair,)
dig; dig in; dine on its skin—
Dialogue demanding her
devouring, she presses
lips shut, her hand lowering
to her ridge; a devil’s claw
entering its depth dips
its pen, emerging bleeding—
if on a winter’s night some
traveler drowns, women
call to him to come again.
Blurred visions bubble up where
interruption of their
performance makes into porn
what incisions morning’s torn;
veils of dreaming threadbare
and unseeming unravel
to reveal a woman’s all
bone and batting; cotton-
stuffed mouths of desire asking…