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.

I resist,
stay in my softness.  My laptop
warms my thighs,
sings me Vivaldi.