Asylum

My pen drags across the paper,
leaves a trail of blood
black enough to birth the spider

which wrenches free, crawls
up a lock of my hair,
leg by leg by leg

until its eight-spiked heart
burrows into my brain,
where it sits, staring, silent.

Pale sparrows trickle from my eyes,
drip onto the page,
spread a puddle of thorns.

I dip my pen, draw
my head aflame with lilies,
my body numb with lust.

My hands grasp feathers
and my eyes are blind with leaves.
The colors of Iberia

curl around my breasts,
like the thick haze of oily waters.
Tendrils of light twist into my belly.

I pour myself onto the paper,
creep under the marks of my pen,
lie flat and white and still.