a block of street forgotten
who is this person I have become
my face transforms a beast
throat coughing up a yellow spotted frog, rubbery
like a fringed clock. The disordered bones of night
fraught, thin, thirsty and searching
about the cubed jewel of the shadow
of the Venetian blind on the painted wall
your bare necessary pieces flushed of body.
Where the wild fours grow is a chrysalis
a pause in the universe's cold. We don't see
the wind when ducks are underwater.
Flesh shouldn't be so awkward. That comes to mind
when you think of silver. She had to thaw
if she wanted to be a mother. The mother
of light by the fur of her edges, the drape
of her throat. How she eats with no lips
down the lower staircase she speaks on a bed
of blue and pink. Your soul wants to burn
sugar in figure eights a rainbow of skittles
sweating your pockets. Whistle your lit skin
at me, Mom. Somersault.
