harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
"Mother, you are the one mouth I would be a tongue to. Mother of otherness Eat me." — Sylvia Plath, Who
~*~
i miss the pearly virgin white of my fist curled small as a sweet seven year old plus a tender ten years to unveil , as if sparkling new .
you constellate — consternate over my opened empty mouth the embarrassment of my bare shoulder bared teeth : i am one baby tooth away from a fresh water tear .
dear : you dapple in the corner of sclera with the fear of my young years collecting in pools ; vomit bleeds from my nostrils and salt my eyes as i grow sore across the mattress and dream their hands divide
— the solitude of my thighs six others beside mine spread wide our four bellies begged their three ribcages open aired with mine our fingers thread four tongues tread each of our panting breaths when a stranger it was my love laboured on top of methem his small deaths littered about the room in empty wrappers —
a young bride i had never died before
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