WHAT THE FIRST WOMAN SWALLOWED

By NK.A.Hwaet

Doffing the chagrining vestments,

his hat falls on the gentlewoman.

Undisciplined eyes sheathe me—

a fury, armed with swords.

At the rock's peak I wrench my self-portrait—

straddling unfamiliar blades,

the realm sears my throat,

lungs blister right to left.

My unbuttoned mouth swallowing fuses

from the organs of men.

Muffled. Skinned. Teeth died.

Perished, rising. Fangs lit.

Glinting beneath Damoclean pikes—

each one revenge.

A bad woman, unworthy of soft touch—

her infant-flower still sealed beneath Rousseau's tears.

They do not know this tiger-guiding woman.

Fiercer than wolves through salt water,

my eyes—two cats tarring raw light—

he sees the afterbirth at the end of his lecture

as I clutch my polemic body.

Offering me half the sky after razing the one

I now return to lord.

Thighs vise and pivot the groin;

we roar through a poisonous climax.

Swords lower as the rain strikes

through the force of May.

Thunder slips me from the virgin world.

I swallow as if I never swallowed a man.

You stand among storms—more effigial than any god.

Here goblets rise at the cross reversed.

Each wrist ascends, declares

a wine coil bled from your heart,

threading straight into my rib.

Ha!

Spring wind ascends—splits me widely awake.

A gluttony burned, a virgin undone

and again…

REMADE.

#darkpoetsclub