Only touch a face in an act of love,
even if it is to hook
the dog’s jaw, spring the lock,
and remove the chicken bone—
even if it is to hook
a finger down the daughter’s throat
and remove the chicken bone.
Her body comes open.
A finger down the daughter’s throat—
she learns to prod the keyhole.
Her body comes open
and releases forty thieves.
She learns to prod the keyhole
that man after man leaves her locking,
and releases forty thieves into
the telling of a story, raids the armory
that man after man leaves her. Locking
a secret seed in her teeth,
the telling of a story raids the armory.
She tells you what you want:
a secret seed in her teeth
only. Touch a face in an act of love,
she tells you. What you want
dogs the jaw, springs the lock.
Marielle Prince is a poet and editor living in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her publications include work in 32 Poems, Crab Orchard Review, Greensboro Review, Four Way Review, Ninth Letter, Poetry Northwest, and Yemassee. She received an MFA from the University of Virginia and is poetry editor at The Rupture.