poem: Laid Open
His fur parts beneath her fingers
silky curls revealing dark unseen skin
that falls away in ribbons
like venison. Through tendons she reaches,
splitting joints, desperate for
what is hidden inside
the cage of his bones
(her own heart, trapped.)
A prince with gold circlet lies
asleep; his eyes,
they’re closed, and she doesn’t want
him to see her, doesn’t want
him at all, because his chin
is not strong and his muscles
are wasted and
she does not want this man inside her Beast.
In waking life
he emerges from his quiet retreating
to roar at her for for prying deep
beneath his fur and the cage of
his bones. (He’s used to
sleeping alone.)
What is she supposed to do, she roars back;
his attack
is sudden, the tips of his claws
at her neck like knives.
“I do not know,” he tells her,
not withdrawing, as if he will slice through her
to the girl sleeping inside. (She wishes he would.)
Later, she realizes, none of the blades they held were steel.