Poetry should be written the way adultery is committed: 

on the run, on the sly, during the time not accounted for. 

And then, you come home, as if nothing ever happened.  

          --Vera Pavlova, poet

          (Contributed by Lucretia)

What Little Girls Are Made Of

My hands are made of colored glass

and glue and lumps of clay.

My hair of fabric remnants

and white papier maché.

My feet are sawdust, sticks, and grass,

a splash of paint for toes.

My head is full of photographs

and poetry and prose.

My breasts are two maracas,

my tongue a treble clef.

My thighs are made of sourdough

shaped by a drunken chef.

So, dunk me in your water

and form me in your hand.

Whip me smooth like batter

or rough me up with sand.

Bake me in your oven

Shape me with a swirl.

But, remember when you break me

I’m just a little girl.

          --Agatha

Mountain Lion

Prompt: "What animal are you?"

I wouldn't mind being a mountain lion
female
powerful
glossy
beautifully grey-tawny

my scent so strong
it summons a mate
from another mountain.

Stretched on my high stone ledge
I survey the valley
watch for intruders
choose the object
of dinner to stalk.

Mostly alone
quiet
in the Spring, my cubs gambol around me
I play-snarl, roll them over
rough them against smooth rocks
looking forward to the day they'll leave me.

An eagle swoops overhead
I lift my furry face to the sun
press my eyes closed
against the heat
and purr.

When at long last the hunter
comes with his gun
I'll spring forward to meet him.

              --Agatha