read
a woman’s soul in prose poesy;
so
rich in pain, as more in aesthetic,
the
art
of the feral beasts; fire by the
breath,
danger
to admit life,
so sickened, so deep in mire,
beauty so pure, we see fire.
I read
a woman’s spirit in print
—soft
spirals, spawn webs, mind
gossamer;
she had legs, a gaze, ink,
a
torch,
a
crowbar, at a furnace,
she
walked in,
disappeared.
reread
an olden project, its ink blotch.
a
soul traveling,
a
hit in meaning, a
miss
in form. reality dragged
open,
guts
splayed to reflect,
snakes
in droves.
many
will outreach overt trauma, so
to
outwit, when possible, an imprint
plaguing
inside.
the
poet, she strikes like a cobra.
