you might say

who

is this

woman?


and I would say
she is the priestess
of garnets

ground

into

dust


why, she burned the prints
right off her fingers with an iron one day
stood up straight
and unwrapped a present of her throat
red and smooth she
turned her head to see the door in the mirror
framing the day like a locket
she undid the clasp
smiling wetly at the future looking in stealthily at the window
she was drooling slightly
from the left corner of her mouth
having just heaved the refrigerator
across the kitchen in a rage
such mundane things--
so big and dependant on external power
she reveled briefly in the crash
of every small item inside
then suddenly uninterested
in the mastery of appliances
she slid into the bedroom
to rip the mattress off the boxsprings
and lean it against the wall
she sank against it and closed her eyes
holding the pillow to her chest she slept
her toes grazing the hardwood floor
tracing designs in the dust
toss by turn there were prophecies of

good matches bad harvests and rings with no

gem stones

on

fingers

with

no

whorls