Wednesday, February 05, 2014


She sleeps with a hammer under her pillow.
Her son was a small torpedo.
When she releases her ponytail her eyes grow three sizes.
Networks of electric re-creation are all her ceilings.
She knocks them closer to the sky every time she sits up in bed.
Her mattress is a little airport abandoned by civilization.
Phantom mechanics make threatening noises in musicless hangars.
Her solo office faces a molten seaboard.
Her keypad smokes under small intelligent hands.
Once a month we visit her shower and she melts me back into my height.
I can see her nibbling a cool sky-corner that has fallen from the wallpaper.
It turns into the skin of an unknown fruit when we press it between us.
The walls cocoon and bristle as the bones of airplanes crumble like salt
in the unheard outskirts.  And when we part like lovers
she strides our reincarnate sight through the alien city,
my eyes shining out of her.  And her breath fills my prisoner legs
until my history is mute with gladness
she reclines on the light in my head.

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