with a painted map of how he did
her wrong. As the wind blows
don’t stand too close, she’ll eat you
with her prongs. With her red

fiery lips she grips men
like a fountain pen, squeezing out
their blood like ink. In a wink a floating
alphabet soup she groups into leather

bound books and sells. Every man’s a piece
of driftwood triggered from her childhood. With
the hairy lashes, she flashes she bashes them
to kingdom come.