Grant us, we prayed. Spare.
For everything we wanted,
a roll of perforated tickets. Circus
tent, my skirts and loincloth rent.
Exhibit of fiery stripes and colors.
I know how to twine and twine
the serpent’s bleached spine and crown
myself. I hoist the daily weight of some
kind of world up there. So regal, you say,
your eye clicking and clicking its camera
shutter. I laugh, knowing the contents
of my tin can: pig slop, your common leavings
shaved for compost from dinner plates.
The flies admire your such good taste
but I, I do not care. These breasts
might strain against my good
white blouse when my arms lift
my burden back upon my head—
but be warned: you cannot cop a feel.
I have a braid of horsehair, taut vein,
a brittle bell. Red flames I could stir
to churning. Clouds boiling in every agate stone.
In response to Via Negativa: Solipsist.