she is split open
once too often; they dip into her
for communion bread, for vampire
wine-tastings. she is fresco,
oil on canvas, chalk,
watercolor: there is something addicting
about virgins, about the girls
with universe side-splits
and the cosmos falling out of their brains onto
the dirty dirty ground.
you are the monsters, catching her
in the act, you are the victims, the villains.
she is the dreamer, the Dead Ideal:
she has fingers in the blood she is still
saved in all the ways you are not,
you gave up nothing; she is living between
her legs, waiting for her
once-and-future nobody
to untie the strings.
the last pavilion 