"Prizes when acid joins the pigment and the sap has been drunk."
Anne Sexton
The hardened myth
still slicked and hanging on,
a tongue wagging jackal's
black stole.
A girl with a red dripping sash
answering into a silky urn.
The Polariod of a burned out
tropic, you won't hold in your hand
or recognize.
Its back knifed and
busted with wheat
and hair, with water and ears alive.
Its weeds full of shiny eyes,
where two or more of us score poorest.
Hidden silver
inside an aviary of bones.
The gate of minuses
worn loosely
out her nose.
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