Blodeuwedd,

so oft reimagined
I wonder how many share your frame:
if you take after Galatea,
or are entirely your own.

How many of your ripples
have taught young girls to love
the monster that the world,
that men, made of them,

to lasciviously lick their talons
to revel in the strength of their crushing grip

to love leaving feathers,
not flowers in their wake

to claim the night and all they can rend
with each incarnation,

each hungry, pretty mouth.