In Which I Give Birth from Loneliness
My hidden bull. My chimeric.
Splinter in my eye, split of my twin,
Splinted syringe. She is raw.
A mouth sore. She embeds.
My body makes monsters:
They too are raw and sore.
A jellyfish under the pillow.
Feet like welts, embossed,
Only slightly ambulatory.
Such small, heavy ponds of mercury.
My body sends out sacks of skin.
I wrap deflated orbs in swaddling clothes
plant in a cup,
witch water weeps darker.
Here and there
I have spilt:
Should I stand, cold with my curtains
spread, rubbing off flesh flecks
into sand mounds,
gathering crescent shaped,
folded nude barrier,
moating a distance between
our image of me?
Further back than my solitary hanging
bat of a uvula, there is a spring
drying in my mouth:
will I dance for you?
Sliding coldness on with a
and hosing down my flammable lips?
I could face down in sand,
but my horrified back
would prickle into cactus
to stay as I am.
This moment could be exhausted blade
before thwack-apple parting,
tame socks, fleece, ardent in
the sterile warmth of a plastic uterus,
ignorant of dust, of light,
peek beneath the hammerhead's frown—
find newly-flossed teeth,
absorb dulcets of hard-shelled
gum before the distraction of
keep a raindrop steady on my wrist
as faithfully as rubber.
All becoming caught with sticky
or salt, or the influence of mud,
I thought to defy a pattern:
scale the walls of hollow tub
stay chaste without shoes
and lose my arm in folds of hill.
The moment of conscious fresh could be
the first vessel to wave the breeze
with scarlet sails and not
be shored on reefs of guilt.