Her pout and her silence
Is a mystery to them
As they are drawn towards her heat
And her slick slopes,
Their daredevil nature willing her caves
To reveal treasures
As she swallows them
And clenches them,
Quivering as they quiver in her trap,
Lost to her unknown depths
Long before
The heatwave of an uncrossed leg hit them.

She is a god, surely,
For she grants both life and death
And creates in empty spaces
And promises unchartered lands
In a world where all is conquered.

They fall to their knees
In a begging position before the spread vault
In prayer and permission.
The jewels and the jungle
Buried beneath the fountainhead
Siren from the darkness
And coat their tips.

A god by her promise, and deliverer in the act,
As they throw pennies in fountains
She forges rivers
And hope for them
In her little deaths.

Pain scorches the tundra
When the rivers run red
And her promise is put behind her back
As she becomes human again;
She sees merely a shadow of herself
When she gazes in the mirror at the
Cotton chain dangling between her thighs
Marking her utility for creation
When all she seeks is destruction.

What power can be had when she cannot wet their soul;
What magic trick is left when she cannot swallow whole?


One thought on “Power

  1. This is not an age of beauty,
    I say to the Rite-Aid as I pass a knee-high plastic witch
    whose speaker-box laugh is tripped by my calf
    breaking the invisible line cast by her motion
    sensor. My heart believes it is a muscle

    of love, so how do I tell it it is a muscle of blood?

    This morning, I found myself
    awake before my alarm & felt I’d been betrayed

    by someone. My sleep is as thin as a paper bill
    backed by black bars of coal that iridesce
    indigo in the federal reserve of

    dreams. Look, I said to the horse’s
    head I saw severed & then set on the ground, the soft
    tissue of the cheek & crown cleaved with a necropsy
    knife until the skull was visible. You look more
    horse than the horses

    with names & quilted coats in the pasture, grazing unbothered

    by your body in pieces, steaming

    against the drizzle. You once had a name
    that filled your ears like amphitheaters,
    that caused an electrical

    spark to bead to your brain. My grief was born
    in the wrong time, my grief an old soul, grief re-
    incarnate. My grief, once a black-winged

    beetle. How I find every excuse to indulge it, like a child
    given quarters. In the restaurant, eating alone,

    instead of interrogating my own
    solitude, I’m nearly undone by the old
    woman on her own. The window so filthy,

    it won’t even reflect her face, which must not be the same
    face she sees when she dreams

    of herself in the third person.

    Age of Beauty – Emilia Philipps

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