Laying Waste

I will warn you only once.

Do not stand in my way.

If called upon,
I will tear the fabric of this world apart
with my bare fists,
and throw it in God's face
to spite him with his own love.

When the horn sounds,
I will rend the flesh and gristle
from the bodies of men and monsters,
and use their remnants to decorate my clothes
and paint my face in blood.

I am warning you, just this once.

Open wounds and razed earth are riding in my wake.

And if you should stand before my horse,
I will not spare you.

The Rind

You can keep your blood red apples.

I will leave them in the bowl
along with any connotations about
temptation
innocence
and lust
that might want to accompany them.

No matter what the poets say,
I have never found a mirror for myself
or my desires
in their thin, waxy skins
and ill-defined cores.

Instead, give me the fruits with the thickened rinds;
My nails are sharp enough to pierce grapefruit peels
and I can temper my patience to divide the orange slices.

Offer me the fruits with the stone centers;
I know how deeply I can bite peaches without chipping teeth
and can tie knots in cherry stems with my tongue.

Give me the complicated fruits
the strange fruits
the difficult ones.

I will carve the pineapples with steel blades.

I will gouge the pips from the pomegranates.

I will crack the coconuts in my fist.

You can keep your flimsy apple metaphors.
I was never the delicate girl in that story
and I will not take such a lazy offering
just because some snake
or witch
or handsome man held it out to me at arm's length.

I will take the fruits of my labors
and enjoy them with smug satisfaction
rather that subtext.