Shedding Skin Batter

Moon-striped skin thinly coats the bones
and heavy sea cream ringlets,
a flat-breasted nether world of stench close in mind...
and her sighted beads swirl contentedly
as his teeth rattle around his mouth.

His blue hands grasp for shedding fish
with half-severed bellies floating
in misty pond weed gel—
He, he'll help her sweep out unneeded mind bramble—

Sticks crochet lies in her head,
and he smoothes the floured batter bi-product
on his yellow, stretch-marked tongue.

The very idea of death thrives in her body,
it’s rooted feet climbing and breeding,
role-playing as veins
with a manly dominance.

(White mirrors will surely reflect what's black inside.)