[..."she" is sexless, ageless her beauty and power all the more terrifying...] She circles about, waiting for me to attend to her, while I polish this rusty disc. The cessation shines through the cracks crusting the earth and illuminating the dust. My location is lost and I am without guide or guard or point. Children speak in so many tongues while mine lolls mutely in my mouth. I want to tell her stories but she runs and hides. We made love in the shade of a tree by a pool and now she is done with me. She will tell me no more. I asked too much. She has run off to the land of her sisters, to lie in the kingdom of her thighs. Her ankles speak to the fish. Her eyes spell doom to the sky. Her belly knows what it needs while I find her appetites a frightening cuisine. Piled on platters polished from a stone I’ll never know the depth of, these dishes, her delicacies, are lost on me. She will not deign to dine from my chest. I have no bosom for her, no breath to be found in this chamber that hums and vibrates emptily. Still, she says she wants me. She tempts me with her promised presences. Her primordial formalities make me uncomfortable. I want her, yet I fear my need for her. I have not the stomach for her. She would have mine on a plate to examine its contents, to know what hatches inside me, to hear what makes me snap. She would take the two bones of my legs for her double flute. She lies upon the grass by the still cool pool and runs into the woods when I call her. I beckon her, but I will not lie with her there in the shadowed wood where she disappears in her dark music. I will sit by the pool, watch fish swim in the tree-tops and wait, trembling, for her mother.