We planned it like witches,
the ragged cut off shorts that cling
to my thighs like hands
and the soft white cloth
that adorns my virgin flesh like fresh
paint, lightly covering
a shiny new house.
We prepared the potions,
the stew of wine and blood and twigs,
and the yellow of tequila that shall drip
down our stomachs like honey to be licked
and devoured by greedy bees mouths.
The whispers will crescendo to loud chants,
and he will hold me from behind, circling
my ripe waist with his clenching
hands. We will repeat our ritual until it becomes
Alive and real as a doll, black eyes blinking
and voice crying, “hello, will you play?”
without pulling the string. Once she is alive,
the ritual pulls us instead, we lay still
as she strips her clothes and laughs, dancing
and stomping her bare feet around the fire, she breathes
beast like urges between our little legs
until we run on our hands and knees, and rip
our clothes into pieces and swallow
each other’s skin and hair.
When the sacred hour of fusing flesh comes, our frantic
energy subsides, giving way to the slow
trickle of a pain I’ve never felt, of splitting
my legs like chopped wood, leaving bits of shattered
tissue gathered beneath my hips to rot.
The act isn’t holy in the sense of god
but in the sense of something that must
happen, like the spider who must kill
and bury her young in her mate’s limp, warm body,
something which moves her eight legs
from a darkness deep within.
When it’s over, she doesn’t regret
the violence, the ritual, or the killing,
and the male thanks her
from silent lips for sacrificing his body to Mother
and hungry offspring. Like the spider, my first
kneeled and thanked me
for my gift of blood and flesh,
and I grinned and laughed
as I tightened my legs around him like a web.