When the soft mouth of a word unhinges, it is sticky, it is feral. Beneath the plum tree
I’ve woven my gray hair into a blanket.
Do you think I’m pretty crouched like this?
See, I am my own whore. Watch me swallow my own fingers. My head a wild tangle full of creatures. Do you hear that—the lovely hooves and mangled pianos? The egg I hold inside my chest, it’s what the darkness ate. In the hot swamp, in the battering sunlight, I tie my braid around my neck and bury my name until it’s silent as a jewel. Feel my salt burn in the cracks of your lips, feel the fat pulse of my tender throat.
It’s the shudder of beauty. No, no, the shutter. Watch me dance on borders in this dirty dress, until my wig catches fire.