She's a death angel,
our tardy visitor,
all bones and a fringe
of red hair. She’s posed
on the corner couch
like a white mantis.
Her limbs and neck,
dry desert sticks,
rustle: pity, pity.
On the alien, angled skull,
her eyes and jaw are stretched, intent.
Her words glitter like mica.
We watch--tentative, wary:
her claws listlessly fold
above legs that stretch and glide
then snap back their quick hinges.
Under her expensive black dress
transparent wings begin to unfold,
nether parts in parchment casings
swell. Death Angel stands
apart. She feeds on our voices.