She is an armadillo of anxiety;
it is all kept under the shield.
Her armour is woven and fluid
and hugs her close like a friendly leotard.
Within, there is a wild unearthly turbulence,
the tremor of other worlds,
molten, untenanted.
You can touch. For the shield
is cool, absorbing
only the sun's harmless centigrades
and the cool fahrenheights of the moon.
You may comfort and console
and be safe in your benevolence.
She is a can that will never open;
her broth, that once was boiled and clear,
is now tainted by years of fermentation.
The naïve simplicities of love
have curdled to a sour concoction -
but cleanly contained -
like the white, stainless sarcophagus
of the nuclear pile, or the washed
bright wagons of the waste train
carrying its poisonous freight.
Remember only this -
you may whisper, commiserate,
murmur gentle condolences,
hover on the threshold -
but never, undeniably never
open a door to the violence within.