When I was young and still
a little girl, I was told it
was impolite to wish Death
on any sovereign body: mothers, boys,
best friends with too-large hands.
I was misled.
I was told to be nice, that
I did not have a skull underneath
my dermis nor an exoskeleton
But my chitin folds and
contracts like pottery in the
heat of Vesuvius. My sweet and
rippling skin, the thin congealing of
magma over the let veins of the volcano.
I will seduce Death with
all my many limbs clutched like eggs
to my chest. Sic Him upon
those who’ve beautified my body and the lava
that fills it with trembling fire.
I was misled –
I am not so polite.