with a belt in her hand & a wooden leg and a knee-high boot on the other she turns me into a pink elephant with a green hat and red tentacles / shark teeth. she knows I am still in front of the washing machine / where mother left me. watching it spin. she knows uterine warmth is still covering my hands. but my feet are cold. she licks my toes to keep them warm. then she tells me about that time, that Peter Pan was not real / but the broken ribs had a long-ter...m effect / eating its way to the very top of my brother’s pre-frontal cortex. where he is watching his own machine spin now. & I’m in the mirror, fondling the back of my skull / because someone told me I was beautiful once. she is chemical adhesion. reminding me that I am covered in skin. disfigured axiom of a spiral, excreting blood. she tells me I am resting on the shoulder of a man. of all men. with a finger in my most private resting place. two, three. I will make it fit. like they did when they examined all the best parts of my meat. when I was butchered with toothpicks. splinters covering the black hole in the center of my laundry room-galaxy / my head in the oven / my shower curtain crutch / my late-term equinox / my miscarried Barbie doll.
she reminds me that it’s my fault
she reminds me that it’s my fault.
brush your teeth.
put on your mask.
go out there.
and let them worship you to death.