She dangles
from your pine branch,
porous thighs generously slabbed,
her eyes germinated, her braids, her hands
small and forgotten and grasping.
You never touch her in anger,
but anyway her fat
would act
as a cocoon.
Soon
her shrine will crumble from decadence,
weighted down by gold, by lard:
spitted, rapidly charred,
her hoard
will melt and resolidify into wax,
her skin cracked.
Easily, reverently, she will be
ignited.
1 comment:
yes!
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