Bearing my unicorn’s horn
Above my plucked forehead
Bare as an egg –
Flood silver, pouch of gold
The bright bowl of my belly
Ready for spilling –
I came to his four-square tower.

He is thin as a wolf
With rank, blood-fed breath
Pointed teeth and a frilly tongue
Under the grey bristle, he’s young.
The balled silver of his gaze
Rips my fleshed silks, pops bones.

He razes my castle to the ground.

Silver the mortar and water
Slow stalagmite in darkness
Stirring its alchemy
Billowing like a white tent, my body

Drums and hardens.
The gold head bursts.
His doctor busies the dish
Catches the spatterfall, the unwindings.

‘A precious offering,’ he mutters,
Brimming the platter.
Blown hollow
I bleed silently into the bed.
He sleeps on a settle by the fire
Moves out altogether to the far tower.
I won’t be put in a drawer. Try again.
Come back to my chamber with your pin.

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