She says that she is the tree of knowledge,
while eating the fruit of herself,
a strong chewing,
like the bark of a wild dog –
she only lets a few branches of herself show at a time,
so as not to blight the sky for its rhubarb and honey-kissed resplendency.
She says she is a subtle thing,
craning her neck in the backseat,
pretending that her foot is a work of art,
a marble joint, optimistic,
always so much colder than the air around it.
She lights a candle in homage of Saint Petronilla,
invoked against fever,
she prays that dawn will come and rust her windows shut.
She will cannibalize herself,
eat the flesh,
suck the pearl of bone, and
the rope of muscle:
all things are subtle things in their destruction.