S J Fowler
I; pair to a troll.
She paces from one foot to the next,
hidden in the shadows of a ceremonial house.
She would live inside if she could,
coating the walls with plasma,
stocking provisions on islands of tea.

She is one size head to toe,
around, cut about like a cylinder
(the reiterated exception, how the positioned degenerate is spared
      -        they never meet their own ideal!
Whisper the theologians distorted, genetically).
She is the daughter of a priest of some kind,

who converted to contemporary totemology and the like,
and was spared. She is squat, female and dark skinned.
She is without redemption, ticks like the abused,
cannot give directions. She could not clean herself,
let alone the Museum. Her face is hard to describe,

as I avoid looking at it when I am able.
It is ironic to let her be in this gallery,
the most careful of spaces,
the sensitivity shown to the relevant powers,
where shadows are placed like furniture,
lights are on timers that replicate the fluctions of the yawning sun.

Where they are allowed to cook, so we might have authentic aroma.
Where the blades are lined like a washing mangle
and crystal drips impotently on the edge of song.
And this toadstool eater is allowed to break the lines of meaning
as though it were green park and she were a wealthy child!
I turn from her and will only patrol the southern point.

I can hear wari balls, hitting each other, scraping.
Her stubby fingers have not the dexterity to whirl them
separately and she seems to take comfort from this direct
evidence of her own incapability and malcoordination.
Medusa at her mirror sat braiding snakes. She thought of Eve and the serpent, and the man who was no help either. She thought, fastening squirming vipers with a clasp, of Cleopatra and the asp. How she would love too to die for love, if but love existed. Failed to perceive in the air the invisible youth aim through the mirror of his shield.

She dreamed she felt death breathe across her breast. Then thought the thrill instead from a still-tangled adder's hiss. Recalled Orpheus' bride stepping on a snake to her demise, so the groom might charm the Prince of Hell to grant the chance at length all hope to betray. Tugged the harder with her gold-titanium comb.

Wondered, while at her neck the sword sliced, could any lutanist in whatever lyric find for her rockbottom face true love?
The head then - cleaved from the body - caught in a bag - began the career of a weapon to turn the owner of any eye on it turned to stone. 
Willie Smith