bone woman

she wears a pterodactyl
like some women
drape their bodies
with ermine,
the saccharine crackle
of her midnight smile
beguiling even the
most jaded reporters,
the press section
of their chartered flight
abuzz with the daggers
she sweeps aside,
her palms bloodied
and frayed,
Daphne's appetite
for retribution
shifting from paltry
indifference
to ferocious
accommodation
as she leans in,
eager to indulge
the pink man
wearing harlequin
stockings and a paper hat
knowing all too well
the trick questions
(poised) on the (very) tip
of his ricin-flocked
tongue