she�s branching,
each shoot a seed
birthing arabesques.

her flesh is her paint,
and she draws a mandala
florid and noble,

a kaleidoscopic eye
whose triangles are thorns
and ziggurats and yonis.

she�s been this way
ever since time
circled and clasped itself,
forming a web.

future raveled around past,
she�s unlikely to leave
the garden of her wounds,

or the blossoms
swarming her seams.

she watches
as they procreate and riot,
sustaining her spidery heart,
her uplifted wings.



�2006 by Chris Crittenden
~Originally Published in Animus