Figeater

First, let the wood pick ream & ream
its femur. Clean it out like a soul
from the body. Slide the yucca cord

through & through like a pin of amber
light on the hollowed parts of us, then
back into a cave, where a cricket lives,

carved into the side of bison bone.
Let it roll & roll into a sun, like dung
kicked across a cerulean sky. Trill & trill

as it moves into mesquite, tymbals
buckling & unbuckling their torpid,
vulgar din, then pluck & pluck

from the prickly pear spume, froth
washed off & bodies crushed
the color of blood, same as velvet

robes & oil paint hues. Next, weave
& weave so exquisitely, a queen
could wear their luminescent abdomens,

a flashing tapestry, as if to prove that
even insects loved. Thread & thread
into a Japanese factory, cocoons

dissolved to silk, vessels jangling
so bright on the black conveyor belt,
they look like stars, briefly, to the souls

with crescent backs & blistered fingers.
Then, steal & steal their wishes, like fruit
from beneath a glossy-bottomed beetle.

Thrust them on a necklace—at their most
iridescent—& again let the cord go
through & through until the thing is

finally finished. Like Delilah’s kiss,
let it lie, as if all those lives were sacrificed
so you could be called beautiful.

Read more from Issue 22.1.