She Blood 

In a meadow, fragrant with iron and goldenrod, 

a coat of velvet between her and the light, 

is where you will find her,

abdomen hanging plump as a ripe cherry  

— never souring, twice as patient,

all her legs raised in shimmering unison like

a queue of Rockettes,  

to dance with her is to dance with death.

Because, honestly

how could you resist the charm of 

that cathedral of diamond silk, 

the allure of the panels of stained glass 

octupled in her eyes? 

It’s unfeasible, to deny such pleasure of 

getting caught in the tenacious grip, 

of the warmth offered in 

intersections between her thighs.

So, they come,

a fatal courtship. 

Ruin, garnet seas unfurling ahead,

a gateway, an entree,

unblemished, waiting,

gummed in her noose,

heartbeats echoing across mesh, 

arousing her unquenchable appetite. 

A silkshake marks her reign

— swaying her hips sensually, 

the hedonistic arachnid arrives,

playing patiently 

with their stuck selves.

She has waited for them to adhere,

to accept her deal, to dance. 

After all, where is the harm in

playing with your food?

She’s close, now.

You see the hairs upon her body?

Like a peach,

a precarious fuzz,

fiberglass or mold,

decorating her body like a sheer shawl.

It does not disgust you, it delights you:

Eyes sparkling, eight dark ponds 

illuminated by moonlight. 

She twists around you

holding her blood-heavy body up like a 

hooker in high heels,

spinning entrapment around you 

until life is almost gone. 

She’s not done with you yet

— struggle satisfies her more than 

liquid reward. 

You wonder if you will be spared.

Her face meets yours,

the dance with death has just begun, 

a deadly kiss, a fatal courtship,

a white satin sheet draped over your

shrunken, hemorrhaged body.

The dance is done.