She is the gypsy
Whose young have rooted
In the very flesh of her scalp.

Her eyes are drill-holes where
Your senses spin, and you are stone
Even as you stand before her.

She opens her lips to speak,
And have you believe.
She has more tongues to deceive

Than you can deafen your ears to.
If you could look away, the voices
From the heads of her vipers

Would be hard to argue.
If you could look away,
The pedestals of your feet might move.

If you could look away, 
The song from the cathedral of her mouth
Would fall to the floor like a lie.

From Waxworks by Frieda Hughes. Copyright © 2003 by Frieda Hughes. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins. All rights reserved.