dance the vine

Sometimes, the dark cat sips
(Waiting
Wanting
Wanton,)
as she paws the coiled
purple grape serpents
with love
and violent hunger.
Slice them apart,
She suggests
As she turns her back on me.
(It doesn't matter to me,
She says.)
I do not slice them,
but step away. Grace
has left me
Her feathers
and I could fly away.
If I chose.
I do not fly.
I wait, as the snakes unfurl
And become,
once again,
purple red warm blood
pooled on the floor
of my bathroom.
The dark cat laps into
Her hot mouth
and is gone.
I did not choose.


SJL: 17th September, 2006