horse shoes beneath her eyes
whale caviar irises
shoulders like sinking islands
an ironmonger’s mouth
a yawning cave –
an inverse stalagmite –
her voice a wan abutment
bite marks on a zephyr
blood on the muslin sheets –
her head hard by mine
she cries
charlatanry, charlatanry –
we string up lurid blankets
for our illusionist’s assistants
and their every outstayed costume –
in broad daylight they change
in spangled concrete stairwells
in apple orchards just past season
they change in narrow night –
we’re strung-up venetians
admitting light, turning light away
at a gentle pull – we’re marionettes
that tell lies (but only when we’re lying)
these are the things she cries
and I know that in her tiredness
she’s unsure quite what they mean
just as I can’t be certain
whether she is or isn’t beautiful.
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