This stinky dummy,
so down.
The red amateur headgear, provided by the nurse,
does not fit their pin heads. Like a cabbage patch
I am as thin as index. Deprived of fluids, fat thumbs nudge
at empty breasts.
The red head gear slips,
protects their conjunctive crust-eyes
from misty hairsprays and other unspecified insecticides:
don’t bite it, suck it,
she says.
This polytunnel,
so sleek, contains weak kids
on their knees, premature and praying
to stunted strawberries.
Sharp little knuckles chip
at refrigerated udder-units.
Punch bag mother, each teat
brittle and hook-hung in every corner
of the boxing ring –
bar one.
Such a stumblebum-son, tooth-
picking offcuts because of a morbid commitment
to the endurance of perpetual punishments
and meat locker uppercuts.
Telepathic spaces creek between feeds.
In your absence
I nest
beneath a washing line of pegged-out
nippleless gowns and one apron, flapping alone:
it appears to be panicking with the wind.
Blouse buttons begin to ping,
flinging gum shield blood into the stadia.
Sports fields come undone and linen baskets
become brimming buckets filled with testicular cancer.
I look through her half of the bullet hole, then back into my own face-
book profile: digital trenches lined with the dead good
looking for an answer facedown.
She made a long stretch of isolation
scatter, an excruciating online affection
activated heaven, without touching
matter, or inspecting her hands for
imperceptible germs: I accept
the fact that it is only Earth
whirling
with the worms.
We took standing counts
and turns
like human beings
suckling on
this stinky dummy,
so down.
Then nothing
between me and the sun
but my southpaw crossing
an indoor garden, unable to unload
His shotgun because of these beautiful
boxing gloves; these restrictive mittens,
your images, they hurt me
so good: bridal, my idol
my hanging horseshoe heavy weight champion of the dirt –
on wood.
