while you want nothing but to be
undone— To grow sleek in the dark
and unlayered in light; to be the girl,
no, all the girls who danced so much
they wore holes in their slippers,
even after the room was locked
from outside and someone threw
the key away— And the poem wants
a shirt to shrug way down its
shoulders, it wants a heap of agate
beads to slide like fingers
across its breasts. Wrap
a woven tapis about its hips
and thread the spines of skinned
reptiles through its dark hair;
under a moon round as a gangsa,
feed it rice wine sweeter than vodka
and make it tell of the night-blooming flower
that shows its face only once a year.
In response to Via Negativa: Unknitting.
Evocative.