Little viper is wide awake,
cataracts dripping blue milk.
They say she must be blind,
that silk under a hot iron
protests more than she ever will.
But what they can’t believe,
they can’t see. She is stretching
past all the places she never thought
she’d have to resign. She whittles
away at her body with words,
with an alphabet scattered
like marbles across the kitchen tiles.
Don’t ask where she’s gone,
don’t knock on the door.
She is here, coiled in the blue darkness
behind your own eyes. She
is a bright shadow writhing,
whispering a dialect
only spoken in dreams.
To the red one I know so well.
To the one whose petals have,
until now, only unfurled in my
dreams, in a space I could not
touch for fear of being taken;
You live in a city full with flowers
and fountains, a place where snakes
teach laughing women what it means
to dance. Yours is a hunger
that has forgotten shame. Yours
is a mirror that cannot reflect.
My body is a flame licked into bold fire.
My dress is stitched together from the
frayed petals of blushing dogwood roses.
When I spin, the world spins with me.
Alhambra, my red one, together we sing,
sing, sing, and watch my spine uncoil.