Type Cast

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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.

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