The Proxy
You hang, head down, a fiend’s joke
dangling in a cave.
Our words fill the hollows with lightning, rain,
bat clicks. When you bite into my ribs,
drums echo against the banks of the river.
I clap together this numbskull’s grin
and swallow the dank air to keep from
laughing:
those wild, yellow curls are lost to me.
You wait, smelling, almost hearing
blood, this damp earth where I bend over.
Published Work of Miriam C. Jacobs 