take me to the red women, their labyrinth spiraling
		in and in and in; the blood-breaking ululations, the smells
		of soil and wet wood and their sex, into their arms,
		the deep ones holding my thread between their mossy teeth.
		this old place where they shriek arcane, the stars coiled
		in their bellies, pulsing shadows in the wingbeats of an owl:
		in here I am fetal, a mote, and mist fills my mouth with
		the heavy richness of tree roots and mud;
		everywhere they plant their feet a plague of flowers follows,
		orchids gone sentient and twining up their thighs
		daisies driving their stems into calloused fingertips,
		eyes blind as nightshade berries.
		my skin is here, it looks like it tastes of milk and sugar,
		I want it so
		as the red women peel it off and finally draw me in;
		like them now I am visceral, nerves raw to the kiss
		of wind and sand, we twirl in the web of the tides
		and chew up the Moon:
		we dance the spokes of the triskele
		we batter down the dead places inside 
		and breathe again.

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