For S, her story


the place of engraved pain and ecstasy,
the cave crowded with demons and gods
casting spells into which we invite strangers and detain them,
hollow ourselves out to contain them

the place in which it is permitted to talk of love

                  *

cupboard doors broken open
leaning against their hinges,
heads dangling from ropes,
skin stretched between tree trunks

turn this way, turn that
what's hidden there waits for you

don't touch the teardrops on the bronze fennel fronds
brushing your legs - each is a spell,
a kiss's shroud, a ghost's shell,
don't touch, don't touch

                  *

in doorways
...