fragment

eyes deep in dark poisonous pools

she stares straight ahead as if blind

but if you speak her name,

she turns her face to you

winterwhite and ivory

your question writhes beneath you,

across the floor and as you wish,

it scatters away like a many-legged thing.

you have lost all sense of truth;

if her face is that of the crone

or your lover.

you seek and she turns her head

a crimson shadow
a hank of dark hair shudders,
her breath fecund,
a whisper resonating in your shell-like ear.
It is her only gift,
whistling and low.