Wildflowers but Make Them Black

If I had a daughter, I would name her Lilith.
She would have spectral eyes, and her tears
would grow a garden unholy with apples.
She would feed the snakes in her hair crushed

light bulbs, weave dresses out of spiderwebs,
and sharpen her talons on old gravestones,
whose etchings reduce woman to wife.
She would be resplendent, boast a fist

of obsidian for a heart to conceal a boldness
greater than any sapphire. She would learn
the finer details, such as white cloth is only holy
until the first wash, and a succubus never

crosses her wings when sitting. She would line
the edges of her bed with cactus spikes to keep
the monsters from leaving and lure the rats out
from inside the walls into a cage on her desk

without a lock. She would paint her nails black
satin and pick at them to leave a trail similar to
scorched ground in her wake. She would read all
the revered thinkers but learn that white ink

contains magic too tame and fashion a quill
out of a rose thorn. She would conceive of her
body as an inkwell of poison, a viscous substance
like a kite no string can tether.