For Daphne Blake, Scooby Doo (2002)
If I could wear
knee-high
purple boots
today I
would not
be the damsel
in distress
to my own
heartbeat. I’d
be a go go
into the haunted
house where the armor
would be useless
against my beauty,
because reflections
can crack
a tooth
but also stitch
that hole
in our heart
that told us
we would never
be the air
just before
the rainstorm,
that we
would never
be the thick glut
of desire hanging
like a fruit
on the lip
of our own quivering
finger confessing
to God that I
am not
Adam or Eve
or Steve,
that I am
a particle
that spins
its own quilt
in the dark worlds
of this mouth.
With these boots, I
am the queen
of the jungleheart,
the go
a go go
into the darkheart
without any fear
because I’ve seen
the king
of spades
and he is weeping
into his own eyes
because he
has found
his own body
guilty
after sliding
his card under
Alice’s skirt
to whisper
not all men
to her ankles
and she
swallowed him
like a fruit
and spit
the pit of him
into the garden.
We are
the hunger
that tides beneath
this rattlework
and when
these boots
hit the floor, we
will all be
the most beautiful
of them all.