Each English word hoards spitted
Fishbones from a dungeon supper.
Language wrenches, tongues me,
Scyllas my backspine for a wig,
Vertebra crown, goons my scalp—
The rest is musk
The rest is muster
Quick it was, such a luck serpent-struck my artery, and boiling
Before the serving, I crawled
From my Open Neck, and announced to all the guests—
&
How the moon storied after.
So that I stood, alchemied.
My carriage forked, molten.
I, a Sloe-eyed maiden in comely
Woods: harvesting blakkened roam.
Spoken castle, I am always washing.
Little as bristle—but thinking, thinking.
Snow heaps on my captured
Shoulders, I have walked the circumference
Of myself. Plant grasses; wait.