LYN LIFSHIN
In the Belly

You know the story
of the woman in a
turret and how ivy
puts its fingers
across the moon.
And besides, no one
could hear. Ivy
that grows forever
against the dankest
part of a wall,
gnawing gargoyles
deep in the belly
of the house. I would
have lowered my hair
to a lover, lured
him with blood
in a bottle, each
drop a ruby with
a poem etched on it.
Or carved my initials
in the grey stone
around his heart,
a glass corsage.
I'd have talked to
the birds or waited,
slept twenty years,
given away my children.
Only I was outside,
trying to get in