Who coaxed the quill of my shaking hold
from the pot there it drew its blackness
to make some semblance of art in bold
mistakes. Drunk out the heart’s recess
it flew almost thrown to pierce soft folds —
that skin. She cried, in surprise sharpness
and her askance asked me why, the golds?
It broke as I bit it out, and still redness
drizzled from what left I could not erode.
The other twin buried like an empress
shaded by the drumming beats in my abode.
All too late for bleaches and guiltless
dried stains waxed on parchment in code
even hidden, unreadable but deep traces
puckered like mother’s kiss in the cold.
I wish the porcupine was my illness
that its nature I blame and thus consoled,
those cruel spines, only consequences
of a folly of telling the untold.