Than a feigning red sigh, the dry metamorphose
from the infection of a cut index finger.

The ripened rarity of a sullen gaggle
of women disenchanted by the yellowing
of too much hot speech,

like a oval-shaped eggshell rolling
down the precipice of a sloped counter top,
the pocket of juice part way through your
mouth, or the sound you make when tonguing your teeth,

is an independent streak -

a rebellious daughter,

a mother sleeping in a hospital
bed, a lover with a bloody lip,
a collection of days, starry-eyed,
the lamp light red,

and green,
yellower than the shade
of the bedpan, or pupils
darting, dilating like an open mouth,

no sound comes out.

He kisses me on the cheek;
a formal expression, grandiose,
liable to reinvent itself at the
slightest shift in the wind,

pull away.

My body is a bent line
standing underneath
the open window,
like a catastrophe,

and you think covering
my back with your arm
will make it better.

My mother sleeps
in the bed while I
eat myself to sleep,

my eye sockets are
empty. I want to go
blind, evaporate
from my skin,

I want to break both
hands, keep them
dead to reaching out
for you.

The yellow of loss
thick on my face,
mask-like, a bridge
from bone to bone,

a strange calamity;
stranger still to stare
at the yellow sun
circling and turning
across the sky as though
nothing had changed.