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La Veuve Noire MAG
blonde locks like rope that wrap around
A silk web, trapping you to wait in line
to be swallowed by azure eyes.
Each flick of the tongue, like hellfire
catapult you closer to the earth’s core.
Pretty hands, long fingernails:
great for cutting flesh.
Her foot under the table, caressing yours
a python gripping a weak, helpless calf.
with each breath of that rosy perfume
like chloroform enchanting you further asleep.
Weaving her fingers into yours, leading you
to the base of the tower.
That beautiful hair, tumbling down from the
paned window sill.
Sleepwalking up the citadel
Gray, white-washed bricks couldn’t bleach
the old blood.
Sleepwalker, sleepwalker, a golden noose
around your neck.
Your arms are tired, body sore
in a last effort, fingernails claw up the stone.
Then you’re left hanging with thorns
in your eyes,
from the black widow’s web, caught like a fly.