bleach your feet,
but that baby is still crying
her mouth opens like your birthing wound,
and climbs in a soprano.
bring her breast and holding chairs,
swaddle her in silk and sable
food hangs from your lips, you use one
hand to rock the cradle.
she's your blood, but you aren't
fond of blood, fainting inside every cut
and small scrape,
falling into any muscular arms that
might lend to your escape.
how can i turn her off?
she is programmed for your beating vein,
your whiny complaint her first listening tool,
your boyfriend's beers with his laugh-
her first friend a fool.
i'm no mother.
she weighs a stone.
i shudder at the sickening helplessness
of her foot! i could crush her
pluck your eyebrow. wax your sex.
take your diet pills inside liquor.
finish yourself as fast as you can;
easier for her.
time takes itself seriously,
never late. you eat her back
inside of you;
baby bird on plate.
she wails with the upwards
birds and flowers head toward the sun;
i hear you come in as the sun rises.
where is your little one?
lost to the moon, and set with the stars,
already strung out across the skies.
you breathe heavily on the couch
as she fills the air with cries.
i hold her, trembling.
i shake, she stills to a fallen baby bird.
rock her, i rock her and cry.
she is not my baby, i fill in
missing pieces and boil milk.
she tugs at my shirt, searching for breast.
she is finer than a spiderweb;
spun to silk.
m.m.e april 1 2007