Damsel Fly, he said, sweet
forest giant, Damsel Fly I
want you to live like fire
and honey and topaz, like
predators and lion cubs and
thorny roses. He was the
colour of faith and blood, and
so she believed him like
a slow child, carefully peeling
an orange during Mass. Forest
giant, I want to see you fly over
lakes and eat butterflies.

Damsel Fly tugged away the
paper from every swallowtail
and birdtail and bathed in their
screams. Blood is pain, she
thought, blood is a common
jezebel, and fell asleep
a murderer.

In her dreams, she was dead
and he was lifting her body
high over Mexico like a solitary
god, half screaming, half crying,
one day this will not hurt, but
upon waking there was never
a dragonfly in sight.

She gorged on houseflies and
then threw them up again,
a widow skimmer.

Damsel Fly stole nectar while
he was away and drank it in
trees, listing cruel names for herself,
reasons why she was alone, why
her wings were paralell to everything
else. Damsel Fly is an abortion. Damsel
Fly is a wino. Damsel Fly cries for no
reason when the adverts come on
TV. Damsel Fly held herself at
night like an AIDs victim with no
family and said real loud;

Dragonfly I wish that you'd come
down from the sky and kiss closed
my poor sore eyes and dragonfly
you are a snake doctor and a drop
of water and happiness and strength
but mainly you are just the devil
and I am a dead horse.

Damsel Fly was never a monarch
but before she reached North
America he ate her whole anyway,
every tear duct and library book,
every colour and jewel and poem
until every letter of her was gone.
Until she was biology. Until all that
was left was the silent twitch of her
little wings,

shredded and unfurled.