I am your hemlock.
Do not beg me to pass your lips;
though sweet on the tongue,
I would be your final draught.
My pedestal is marble mazed
with deeper fractures
than sculptors can mend –
made milky by sentiment
washed from the skin of helpless pebbles.
I need no mirror for my reflection.
No silvered glass may spin my light
into silken threads – you gossamer-catch yourself
and offer flesh for my teeth.
But I will not bite.
Do not make me swallow.