Out of Flesh
She is furled inside,
A hot green place,
Flushed with dew.
But flowing knots of ears vibrate,
The yellow singing.
The shaking sound of golden drumming begins
To tug her soft frame,
Not yet a body,
Out of quiet marrow.
Those dusty fingers, so insistently teasing
Her wings into limbs
Her tails into thighs,
And the flowing coil of fire
into something red and cloying.
She beats against the heavy form,
To be free and in the dark again.
Then a tall helix of clacking shapes,
Bubbles forced into brittleness
Stacking like bars in a cage. She tries to swim away into forests of blood
But her claws are fingers and will not scratch through heaven
Anymore. And light suddenly,
it digs inside to touch her,
tickling its way and leaving holes
to be filled with eyes.
Air pours and scalds and hisses through
And burning capillaries.
Naked and blind, she follows the singing.
There is the sharp earth,
And the dripping wound in his side.