The air - was Close - the Pane - slid High -
The Sill Imbued with Dust - Gave Up
A Maple Wing - of Brussels Lace -
A Tachnid or a Horse - Fly -
A blue - Half Shell - of Tree Nut Style -
Crissed with Gold - Vermicule Paths
Inside - and a Common Bottle Fly -
Perhaps Descended from the One who Buzzed when you Died.
My Feet will Enter - your Room - Soon -
My Body - Looming - Over Them.
I thought, at 15, that you would not like me,
Too tall too fat too dumb too ugly -
But now I have a Troupe - Motel
Wing - and Shell - Motel Flies
To whom I feel equal in the Old God’s Eyes.
My Mother - Never - stayed in a Motel -
So I revel in - each Motor Hotel
As if I have a right to be Here.
Your singing called me here - it should have been
Evie, or Louise, or Bren, here -
But it is I, your humble Leige -
Hunter, Diana, Siren, Heretic -
Sister to Barbaric Yawp,
Descendant Girl - of Awkward Yawl -
Down to Earth, down to Sea.
If they couldn’t Catch you
Maybe they can’t -
Catch - me