Laying in our single skin
eye to eye amalgamate
sewn together aggregate
to float the amniotic sea
waiting to be born
you couldn't use a word like love
so small, so ego-ish, presuming choice
of masks, of roles, all fantasy
too many strings, obscuring voice
of one silence-shredding scripted horn.
No, more a centaur mythed to be
living dual without control
hooved with chaos black and gold
unrolled, unroled, itself the work
unfolding terrible and bright
as the amaranthine dancestep
at sun's core, but purely animal
the way that flesh and fur keep hurt
burnt deep below the liminal
too-knowing glance, the sharp white bite.
A contrarian ten-line stanza form I just invented, and a poem for no prompt whatsoever.
Rebel rebel--my hair's a mess.
Image: Struggle Between Woman And Centaur, circa 1905, by Odilon Redon
Public Domain, via wikiart,org