Her spine curved to fit the puzzle and when the book forbid it, the devil drooled over it.
She hung high and tasted sweet juice off the tip of some tongue that emerged like a slippery fruit.
There are cat-like abilities in the woman's book of everything and she demonstrated it well.
She would bend over backwards or maybe just forwards for it.
When the good son went to church, she went to bed with his brother.
They would give lashes in school to the children who talked in class
She would give pecks, touches, smiles and get all of that back.
She was called a spawn because she knew how to live.
The drink with the burning snake bite never lasted long in her cupboard.
A specific scent and the taste of honey as she smoothed herself over a fleshy canvas of chest and
warm heartbeats.
Drip, drip, drip, the devil drools and beckons for more
as the nuns pray for her soul
She's done all the things that make her happy and they conspire to take it away with a slap on the wrist
She takes them on with a curled and swollen fist.
She aches all the time and feels warmest when she's wet from the rain.
His illustration of her was done by Picasso and spell-checked by Monet.
She fluctuated and agitated, alarmed, expected, and danced her way into the fires.
She was alive with the spit of a hot iron.
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