The light in her bedroom
has been out for hours.
She reaches for him,
swayed by the wash of the moon
and its exile waters and ripples
of fallen stars, throaty rasp
of tiger cub and fleshy plump
of huntress back to den.
She is old enough.
Blossom of blue smoke,
her lips fret the edge
of salty questions, quiver and relax.
A single candle is lit.
It dances attention on stuffed dogs,
training bra, milky plastic crucifix,
jar of petroleum jelly. Dog-eared
Polaroids glint like oyster shells
on a flat cotton beach. A reef
of crumpled tissues rings the bed.
In the body she longs for,
priests of Isis tremble at her veil,
and the bloody herald teaches
more than her mind can know.
