Minute horror of scorpion
scuttled over clipped grass,
your forked tail flicking
out dew behind you,
staggering over pillows’
white dunes, not fearing
the slow-to-waken
for you have whispered
subtle morse in our ears,
slipped like a comma
from the soft conch,
for you have translated
the sea before dawn,
then weaved to the ground
we cross over, reassured.

Or perhaps a semi-colon—
contingently, you
on the pillow, in the silk
flotsam, those
threads, my lover’s hair,
running-on past fingers,
past pincers in the umber path
to her scalp.
You are a do-without;
you are easily forgotten.

Except the initial revulsion
for even what makes you lovely:
flexion of lacquered torso,
clean eyelet of caliper legs.
Awfully agile, you dark naiad,
and so calmly minacious, you take
your advantage on those not
alert enough to close their ears
or clap you shut on yourself.
Children roll awake in their sacs
and you, despite your cunning,
your black grace, stamp
dashes on their dreams.

– Joanna Fiducia

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Filed under Poetry, Vol 1 Issue 1

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