Bluebeard

It’s true I put my head
into the mouth
          of the lion,
 
touched my tongue to the rough
of his tongue, slicked the dark
          underside of him,
 
unspooling what nature
demands
of my wanting.
 
Yes, I watched the false man prowl,
and begged as he starved my wicked
flame from me,
 
learning to breathe only when
he breathed, until my world was
 
his, each day was his. His silence
          I longed to set a fuse inside.
 
          Desire, my hunter.
          My hunger—
 
Red witch roaming the scorched house
of fires I have been, fires I have built,
and nurtured, all my good days burnt
 
to guilt and bluster, his good skin stripping,
          that sinful itch.
 
          What is permanence?
 
These gashes will heal, eventually. Scratch
of madness teething love, be infinite. But who
          could endure this?
 
He roars, unblinking, but never releases
          me—
woman turning underpaw,
crushed as a straw doll under
 
          her longing.
 
I kiss the bruise. Dress my famished
wound, its heaving. I kneel, he opens.
His cruel mouth a humid snare.
 
God or devil. Annihilation.
Brute inferno of any feeling—
          I beg you.
 
          Devour me.