Her Head Is Full of Poems

Idolatry

Buried in black clay
a network of woe—
at its center a fist.

Tight buds
take flight
or imagine it.

As from a clump of beets,
the lofty one leads —
her veins, deep roots.

In an ampleness of grass,
the stalk’s sap
rises, thin fuel.

Her twin antennae
curl and nod. Breathing,
throbbing fibers

Bend and sway.
A flower’s eyes
see wanton curves.

The hills and valleys pulse,
and Sister Labrys sails,
sucks menace at her stem.

Inside a shell — her
blooming trapped —
ardor flaps and flails.

The rivers in the headlands
run dry before her will—
sheer idolatry of light

Trembling for release—
from the blossoms in her blood,
from the petals of her pain.