A door opened into her body,
a cavern, pinpricks like electric wasps.
Her fingers dimmed
like fireflies drained of light.
So this is someone’s work, she thought,
the dimpled spider and the white heal-all.
Her heart waned in the cave.
A fox crept to the mouth, lowered his head.
Wind shivered through her gown.
Where is he going? she asked.
Where is the spider? At night
flowers closed like ghosts on their stems,
moth wings ruined by fingers. Voices floated
from the hall, lungs filled and emptied,
alveoli like paintbrush bracts,
like tips of lit torches.