She rakes in her string, her birthday honeycombs,

with her scantily matter of apron, whistling grandiose soliloquies

to the moon. She eats phone calls with a tick

 

and sieves the words like gravy, oozing over

your plate; all fresh, all flesh, participants to this autumn

suffocation. She smiles when your belly

 

drags, your swollen head nestles in her bosom

and shows you girls in veils. Lipstick brides

marry heels and she ties shoelaces

 

together like an ear caught in a shell;

all roars tease, like the veins around your sleeve,

reaching beyond your body,

 

but itching in just you. My what a womb

you could have, if you lose your mind

beyond the Christmas holiday;

 

the shared dulling beaker.