Poetry

The Witch of Brabizante

The reflection in her pink skin made my eyes water. The large head
rolled around its neck
like a satellite dish
at SETI.
Her legs plunged into the wallflower skirt
like an underwater ledge. The acres of hair
suggested
an arable brain.
Her lips were a puncture hole
in a rubber mattress; the air
rushing out was more toxic
than Tutankhamen,
richer
than a fly strip
at a piggery. A rubber pompom of subjects
dotted her I and pitted
glib pronouncements
with evacuated fricatives. The baste
ladled tongue
lapped at shores
where language competed
with sea wrack. A gothic
carbonara
scraped from a skillet
in Arcimboldo’s kitchen.
Teeth crowded forward
like the charioteers
of the Elgin Marbles. A skyline
from Jerome Bosch
was her smile.