After her father’s death:
She had expected an uplifting
She had foreseen an exaltation
There had been signs
There were to be risings upon currents
She was to ascend from the cross-legged, to the
Throne of a poet’s promise, to a
Cloud of lightened footfalls, to
Gates of grandeur, tulip-strewn,
As open,
As wide,
As the welcoming plains of Persia.
Instead, staggers she
Stamping her leaden hooves at peril sure to come
The hair-lip of her cunt-lip come unfold a-blossom
(Like any wild strawberry a-dew)
Where metallic finger beckons bees
Of sticky knees,
To lap, lap, lap
To render pollen thread,
To nap,
Where only lions fear to tread.
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