That Woman

Don’t ever believe that woman,

the one who smiles brightly.

slides a stocking up her leg,

gives you your car keys, cigarettes,

a kiss without a shadow.

Never leaves a scratch on your back,

a note in your pocket-

just flutters a casual wave of the hand

as she pulls from the lot after checkout.

Don’t ever believe the woman

who shimmers and writhes like a snake

while you watch through the glass.

She is the goddess who takes dollar bills,

the buttery cut, happy

to stew in her own sweet juice

while you stutter, grunt and come.

Don’t ever believe her

When she claims not to mind

the scrapes down her legs,

when she says

she can turn men to swine.

She spreads her flesh thin

across so many lovers-

they are, in her sight,

only one hungry beggar.

One scum-crusted thief.

Don’t believe her when she swears

with each castaway glance,

shift of her hips,

shrug of her smoke-drift shoulders

that she isn’t dying for love.

For inside her shape shifting skin

sits a child

pulling up wool winter socks

on a lonely weekday dawn.

And inside is a morning sun

bound to blaze and blossom;

bloody crown breaking through

the flesh of the horizon.

(Published by Prehensile Press)