I crawled out of Sylvia Plath's bones in 1965

into a man's arms;

he called himself father

and gave me to bone cradles

and sweet musk moments in gypsie woman skins

the color of burnt sienna and cocoa

And he gave me to the wolves

but especially to old Enkielle  with the uncertain spine

and one white blind iris

it was a trade for the old wolf's spine

which had been injured by a hunters buckshot a decade before

outside of Morovia:

Enkielle became my milk in a cold world of people

my  uncle mud in summer shine beneath

a thousand cherry trees

whirling until I'd fall into his belly

Enkielle was always my beautiful trap

when I ached in shiver bones to rip out of the fabric

of the family

my father's trap which was more sweet Venus nectar

more spice

and Asian illusions in Kabuki velvets and masks

I crawled out of Pandora's box to be beaten down

eaten down

by the golden paradox of my mother

her eyes so cornflower blue

her heart mad with childish glee

and brazen mistress ticks and tocks

unwinding around every married man in town

until all the women came to hate her beauty

 envied her skill

and wanted to shake the brazen flavors out of her

acrosss their fares of bacon fat and cabbage stuffed with pork

and spices from the garden of the old man down the road

who kept the secrets of the village in his magician's cart

by a fresco of the Jesus and the Madonna

I shook my droplets of pheremones and dew from the pond

out of me across the veranda of marble

to startle the gentlemen and lafies

their crystal goblets frozen in midair as I tumbled

over their preconceptions

out of my prococious marshmallow sweetness

and candied candy canes with which to tap dance

and delight into utter terror

into my unexpected overture

curvature of spine

a sonatta in my throat as the wings beat

into my back out of prismatic fluctuations in Time

to fall

to crawl on all fours

shivering

against the silk trousers of the man who pulled me into Sylvia Plath's ash

Pandora's brazen fire;

he smiled

and said to the refined company;

"The old ones tore them from her spine eons ago.  Sometimes they grow back."

and he smiled

his black eyes eating up their colliding emotions

with the same delight he had for lotus blossoms

and lavender dipped mullberries rushed with cream;

I have always been his cherries jubileee

have always been Enkielle's child

who had a sense of devilish humor for a wolf

and always egged me on to pop my spine wide open

to startle the daylights out of all the lords and ladies

copyright2008:victoriaselenemskyedeme