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TEETHING
The child does not visit its
mother.
An ordinary enough situation.
The mother complains of her lot.
This is understood.
As the years pass,
The child brings home her old clothes.
Which get smaller and smaller.
These the mother dismembers
For zippers and buttons.
She knows she is plundering the grave
Of the living.
At night, the child opens her purse,
Sees her quarters
Have turned into milk teeth
Roots stained, blood
Rusty-red.
The mother flies out through
The wall ribs, neon blue skeleton,
Her dress stitched down with quarters.
In the full moon, they gleam, cold sequins.
In the morning, the child wakes up poor. |
