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

above. 

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.

-Apollo