Everyone talks about the red cloak. And let’s
not lie: It’s a beauty. Wool from a thousand
soft sheeplings, spun by the hands of not-virgins,
women of a certain age who have mouth moles and
scars like moons and who recall their best lovers
in the stroke of every strand. That gold thread weave
is crushed of mermaid fins, whiskers on the edge
of milk, the last word of the falcon before it gives way
to ash. Bone clasp that remembers the neck
its soft danger.
But the dark under the bed is a kind of promise too.
The mossed vee of trees, the black nest that lies
to the bear. Wolf and maw and girl inside out
are one and the same. The drag of red across the leaves
is the blur of diamond-hearted asps, saying
When she’s gone, she’s gone for good. Skin-clad
in the lace of tongues, she refracts light through
trees and beds and bears and the eyes of princes.
Were we all so blind once. The cloak is yours now.
It changes shape to claim you. It weighs worlds.
Image taken with iphone while getting dressed
Words written at Barnes & Noble Cafe
Brain on work, life, writing
Ears on the sounds of the coffee shop