Icicled to perfection, cold curves softly weeping, I can pierce like some narwhal’s tooth exquisite, almost mythic. My body is a tuning fork, sung when struck, a frequency pure as white vinegar. I’m hollow as a new moon, satin as a glove. Bloodless and clean, an alpine lake, a rainbow trout’s butterflied skin. An archaeology site, a spine baked into salt, a skull scoured by sand. The flickering wick of a peppermint candle, the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb, a bowl of cherry stems, hearts stripped of flesh. You can only see my spidersilk when it billows into the light. I exist only as distant birdcalls or the steam lifting off rivers at dawn. I rinse my mouth clean with mint tonic and pink saltwater. I skim the foam off of my family’s concern. I shiver down to a cat’s pupil, hunt myself into extinction. If only you could see me now, how fatally beautiful I’ve become.
Litany at 92 Pounds
poetry
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