Leda
on the floor
still for hours
darkness passed a long time since
nevertheless
the house smell is paint
the walls are not dry yet, somehow
nipples are still sore
one hand sweats onto a white feather
the other between her legs
the tip of her index finger inside
is cold, purplish
her hair is tangles of fishing wire
is cablano
she smells different, even to herself
is some wreck
is a shipwreck
is wet between her thighs
puttana maybe, she thinks, puttana
something is moving inside of her
arms as wings
flutters and starts
her ribcage is shells
the delicacy of eggshells
everything is
