My wheel and loom are smashed. The goddess tore
my tapestries to shreds and threads. My eyes
kaleidoscopes. The room a different size.
I cannot see the colours any more

that once I wove. My webs are line and curve
abstracted thoughts turned in that trap and seize.
My love kissed mouth turned mandibles. With these
I sting and rend. No more than I deserve

Some poet said for boasting. Mile by mile
from aching gut I spin a silken rope
to trap not flies but gods. It is my hope
to see them limed like little birds. I’ll smile.

Sated as when I fuck, then kill, a mate,
then snip their heads off, neater than a Fate.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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