The Hostess

Like the movies where the giant octopus
Grabs the hero’s leg
A silver white plume streaks through the tall weeds
Leading me
Diminishing me
Growing in traces like an evil suitor
Overhearing my thoughts
Refusing to leave
Gaining access to my eyes and throat
Growing and transforming into an angry octopus.
Smitten, I move past myself,
Like instinct.

by Lori Messenger

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