Poem

It melts losing its form,
Turning into a sculpture.
I can hear it no more,
For it sways within a furry forest,
Buried in wax,
A muffled sound escapes.

Stretch marks on a prowl,
A low growl peeks through veins,
Eyes lined with red see her.

The lines break outside roots,
Slithering down foamy wax,
Down my scales and stripes.

I listen,
A lick, a flicker, a slither, a growl.
Against negative spaces,
Between hair, forest, scars,
Is a sound, a cry,
So silent.

In between my scales,
She sings, she speaks, growling and screaming,
Buried.
Under-wax, between scales-
Threatening to tip them over,
And drown the red line in her waters.

– A woman’s meditation