Cynthia Parker

She opens her beautiful mouth
And from its delicate depths
Spew sharp, slender spikes
Dripping with curare.

A moving target,
I twist and dodge, yet
One projectile finds a sweet
Place to lodge in my throat.

Effective as a plastic bag
Over my face, the venom
Stifles. My muscles freeze;
My mind races onward, blindly.

Realization creeps stealthily
Across her face, apparent
In the orange flames that rise
In her eyes. She smiles.

With her spear, painted in
Ochre, vermillion and maize,
Its shaft carved with the
Evil intent of her words,

She gleefully jabs
My unresisting body –
Ritualistically – while my mind
Screams.