She Slides Like Dew When It Creeps Down The Long Curling Tubers Of An Easter Lily Poem by Shannon Walker

Her raven hair's
Like the willow tree,
And a Black Nighmare

Brought her to me.
It stopped outside
Beneath the tree,

To let her slide
To the soil,
Just like a bride.

It made me ill,
For a moment.
Everything was still,

And transcendent,
Otherworldly,
Even the torment.

She moved softly
Across my skin,
Almost playfully.

Then turned again
And bared her teeth
In a crimson grin

That hid beneath
Her flashing eyes;
Anemic wreaths

That pout, then sigh,
So perfectly sad,
And dripping with delight.