Down unseen doors and locks.
Where her crimes, once stacked in shelves, now drop.
Hidden from men and their "lawful” mocks.
For them, it's a mere stroll to the shops.
Tip-toeing feet, twisting knobs.
Antics, of the books behind, she reads.
And follow her, the beasty throbs,
her toes unleash.
She deciphers the lock,
she forever finds sealed shut.
Entering her crime scene,
she half breathes, half sigh of relief.
Loosely holds her collection of crime,
in case she must flee.
Absorbing words from paper, as quick as
blood soaks, rugs or sheets.
Meanwhile,
For the journey back,
her toes in ice.
For the journey back,
she recites her alibi.
Dark eyes? Just ages glares.
Red feet? A life her belly wears.
Dusty hands? Perhaps cleaning somewhere.
With all words abandoned, on the pages,
she slips back, with silent success.
So she starts to weep,
at the thought of the toes,
she now breeds.