lies between me
and my writing desk, it
towers over me like a bad
dream. One where I am trying not to be ripped
arms, heart, mind, soul, swept
up like Fay Wray spread hands fanned
hiding my beauty, my fear (my love) of Kong
to a place of uncertainty and small words.
stay in my softness. My laptop
warms my thighs,
sings me Vivaldi.