lace.

we expect to be hunted by
wolves.
we tie our sleeping bags high
in the trees so the
black bears don't 
smell the stretched shadows  
we stuffed inside--
slap the mosquitoes from
our wrists as if
they are the hands of a watch.
ladies drink arsenic
to make their skin into milk
and moon lips--
here we find ourselves hunted
by a throat barbed with lace--
the wedding train
of the jelly fish who
pretends not to be circling closer--
the kind of waltz that drowns
all approximation of beauty--
she claws at corset strings
and you beg her to pull
you in tighter
tighter 
tighter--
we all live so delicate and
deadly.
no one remembers being
hunted-- 
swallow whole 
a fist of ribbon-- shards
of a pale stained glass window.
put on your halo
just to fall like
the dinner plates where
we served the moon--
she devours you 
slow the way 
you like it-- 
there is nothing 
more intimate 
than being 
made 
beautiful.