Fate

Photo by Andrey Zvyagintsev on Unsplash

She arrives with a flute,

a Siberian pied piper

with the gaze of a coot,

her hair is braided

beneath a white papakha,

her hand is faded

into a kinzhal at her waist,

hopelessly erotic,

infrequently chaste.

She feeds you silver

as she plucks your claws,

bleeds your tongue

as she recites your flaws.

Sixty-six edicts

are nailed to your chest.

Her name is signed in icons,

her lips blow vaporized zest.

She arrives as prey,

and transfigures into bait.

She departs with a hymn,

an orthodox chant

woven with a thread,

the type that begins

and ends in your head.

A ternary asteroid,

with a peculiar trait.

Fate.