THE SCORPION by Erika Dane Kielsgard • Cleaver Magazine
THE SCORPION by Erika Dane Kielsgard We tear her limbs to divide our fear. Her mangled segments reflect hell mouths in mortal eyes. She does not inspire the sacred. Adorned with a swarm of insects, her myth is a mask for history. Her claws do not grasp haphazard or hapless. Do not let her slip through your fingers while your iris clings to the muse invoked: a stagnant self-portrait in a shallow pool, a shower of pearls she likens to foam. The scorpion is an ocean, the context of a wave. She sheds her skin seven times before devouring the dawn, carrying within her abdomen small heavens, the eternal call.
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