11

She arrives with a flute. 
A Siberian pied piper, 
With eyes 
As black as her suit. 
Her hair is braided 
Under a white papakha. 
Her hand, faded 
Into a kinzhal at her waist. 
Fate.


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. 

Fate.


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.

*

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