SHE
Her tangled tongue tides infinitely, a stuttering sea
pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.
Her hand is a foot, her pale beak-hook
tears 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.
~January 2016
posted for real toads
mariposa: Spanish for butterfly
Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, photos by Karin Gustafson
All rights reserved to whoever owns them.
