A sphinx is a woman made
of parts that are not woman:
lionheart, wings for skin,
scales falling from the spine and city ruins.
Bomb-leveled.
Perhaps that is the crossroads’ riddle—
how to shake your head and smile when you are standing in a crater,
towers quivering, then
collapsing, pipes gurgling at your feet,
bleeding out
your reflection. These things do have a way
of getting under the skin. Making the blood whir.
As if somewhere inside your body
you forgot to turn off the stove.
Your heartbeat: And yet. And yet.
Thick ridges
of scar tissue catching and releasing the light
like glowing fish—in an abstract sense, you know
this is called a wrist,
mottled spider: a hand. Broad planes of flesh
retreating into a thicket of hair. Somewhere
your name.