Her tangled tongue tides infinitely, a stuttering sea
pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.
Her hand is a foot, her pale beak-hooktears liver from a red-cursed god on a rock.
She sneaks her wings off the mariposa
to discuss the death of a crawling worm
all for a bloody flutter and fall, to pound in our ears
her liver-flecked lie as sweet sufferer's sense,
her mirror eye all on the wrong side, broken
but bright, reflecting the shine of her fracture-knives
cutting deep as she can into watching clay
but clay won't bleed and SHE can't see
that no more will we
ever have what SHE needs.
posted for real toads
mariposa: Spanish for butterfly
Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, photos by Karin Gustafson
All rights reserved to whoever owns them.