The Perfume of Tarantulas

A little less innocence
     on her breath when she dances
     in and her tongue waltzes past
     your consoling lips, your moist
     clandestine intentions hard
     to conceal as she feels your
     kiss come uninvited and
     carve its carnivorous slit
     into her bark as if you
     were lovers harshing twisted
     fistfuls of initials deep
     into history, a space
     where words inhabit a sore
     precipice Eurydice
     fell into, much as she is
     now falling madly for you—
     insanity a forest
     where minds wander and get lust.

The perfume of consequence
     sits unopened on wide hips
     her yarn-spinning hands divide
     as if your magnificent
     insignificance of an
     existence were somehow so
     impossible to resist—
     yes, this tarantula kid
     still invites you in, even
     after her hurt, averted
     glances said more than your poor
     boasting of things you never
     actually accomplished
     did—yes, it must be you lured
     into her pit, bruised fruit’s sweet
     forbidden grip, with its thick
     sticky fingers, pulling down
     wet pants your smooth lips loosened.

The perfume of underwhelmed
     Persephone’s last breath less
     intense than your purpling of
     suffering her last night on
     earth resisted until damp
     desire pooled its denials
     of the truth and triumphed, skirt
     rising past the horizon
     as she fell dignity-first
     into those ringing circles
     of your throat’s open well, your
     shallow crucible too hot
     to be useful in Hell, too
     few scruples melting off what
     hides what you refuse to tell—
     her flesh smelted from your wish
     to devour it, and for what
     purpose? to swallow ashes?

               So much for ‘following the
                              perfume of tarantulas’
                                             and similar excuses.