Maple Sculpture

Strung up high on a pearl necklace,
baby's hoisted further to his departure,
just as paranoia squirms in-between my legs
and up my spinal cord and chews
with teeth of pure, sculpted calcium.
He's only fallen to eat his own wings,
but feathers always tasted best in such
a melting pot of indecision,
marked by broken water and a raw,
exposed shoulder blade.
Maple syrup eyes glued to the back of his taboo,
his lips can't whisper loudly when
traces of stigma keep them shut.