She resides in riddles,
tongue hungrily slinking along cracked, carnivorous lips
and saliva sinking into a pelt like the gold she supposedly
Her paws pad through throats like a parade,
patronizing and paralyzing and proud of the trappings she
She crawls, coughing, from her crypt –
ticking and ticking through the boredom of time.
She is wily and wild and winged,
and she impresses herself onto triangular tombs in shrewd
statuesque and royal and ridiculously self-assured.
She is the myth’s siren darling,
hair tripping over birdlike bones
and bloodied teeth sliced by a child’s smile.
She clings to a sea-stained map with no slashed “x,” slit
edges rusty-colored and useless.
Solitude cloaks a mermaid’s wake,
feathered with a selfish hunger
and veiled by wanderlust’s shroud.
Her garbled tongue will lure you close enough to taste her
and she will crumple in her palm your will and words
like a fistful of melting sand,
unapologetic and ruthless and constantly searching.