My spinderella, young animal
with doll hair fetched from the breeze,
water lapping the full soft pubis,
feet poised on shells in the mud,
tits scorched by the edge of the sun,
shoreline reflected in a crease
on the churning forehead--

salt ears, waistline pierced with a cross,
a fiber of vaginal metal, priestess killer
who bewitches the burning piles,
bleeder on hills that rivulet to the valleys
with prompt ink, caves breaking and pouring,
her sainted hand bound in moccasin laces
soaked in fever dreams on my winding chest,
where she lies down to muffle action words
and observe her drippings on my bearded
chins lapping back from the wax of cracked mirrors
and bent fans in a razor's eyelash