Elsa is not a girl she is a girl
fashioned from sticks and whale blubber, paper
tigers that with one poof fall away. Worldly
she passes through society like a ginger
cat stalking the moonlight. No one can see
who she isn’t. No one can read her at all.
There is something geometric about her. She
is made like macramé, one knot enthralled
by another. Remove all her plums and
she is nothing like temptation. Cut out
her lungs, veins spring like rubber bands,
the pleural cavity echoing like doubt.
Cut out her heart, that giant cherry pit
and let’s see what she does without it.