The doorjamb we peep through seep through
There, a corridor adorned with bloody runner
We hear her tiptoe through hells teeth-baring halls
Pull out the tongue! Decrescendo
Little Read Writing Hood takes off her ears and slips under
a book cover. So amazed is she to see how granny appears
On a hanger hung her hood and on a hook her head
“All the better to hug you with, my dear.”
Our ear against the pillared wall
cheeks, heartless red
One stroke two we are dead
Though Death it could not be, for she stood up
And walked among the Fiends
Once upon a night, she landed
On an airstrip of impotence Whoosh!
Snaking tongue ’round her throat
Dingdong down that endless chase
Doors of coarse
Though one ajar
Through blighted light helical vortex
Poor Little Writing Hood knows the perils of speaking to hobgoblins
who populate her sleep while in her throat she chokes on sticky ghee.
Upon the transfer of that song, wicked wolf took the shortest dream
to granny’s unthatched home.
Arrived by the time she closed her lids
It was a Rural Gothic
All shades assembled
Nine windows no doors
“Enter through the dome home,” dripped out the mouth hole.
Our ear against an icicled stream
A hum secret mirror missives
She is afraid to own a body; it possesses the darkly night
Sunflower root assailant of snails
Her marble feet freeze
Between the hours of life and death
Next-door neighbors knock on the floor.
She is afraid to own a soul.
Someone else should keep it, protect it, love it better than she,
Share it in the light.