When a Yemeni bride complains
of sharp pains on her scalp, her hairdresser
insists it is only the hairpins holding
the braided black wedding wig in place.
Jealous Sister finally admits sneaking
a scorpion under the whorl of egg-stiffened
braids, loops of red ribbon, gold seedbeads.
How beautiful, this body–exquisite
even in its poison. Take Dali’s angels–
winged cats soaring above sand dunes,
blessed blue bowls of frothy milk.
In the corner of his painting, whole giraffes
are set aflame. Can you imagine
their terrible call? I refuse to swim
in the Ohio River. Police say
the catfish skimming the bottom
grow six feet long, their whiskers
the only swish the men see
when they search the silt floor
for a missing girl. Invent a new line
for me, sketch me something
with lots of hair, extra bite. I crave
a new monster, all of its life
and saliva, how it gives me proof
my blood can still slam from one end
of my body to the other, gives me
more energy to stay wide awake,
one more reason to check under my bed.
