Monica Fambrough
Don’t you think salt is pretty?
I put my mouth
on the canvas.
What is bare
is inviting.
Very curved drain
of the sink-like exposed.
We stare and stare
at the arm in a sling.
You turn me
on with your mouthful of ashes
and you panful of eggs
And I look at you
with my black bulletholes
and my mouthful
of eyeshadow.
I start to say something
and blue shampoo
pours out of my eyes
and glistens in my hands.
A pumpkin of lava
upturned on the table
must have been
the centerpiece.
Which of these islands
behind my eyelids
have you been to and which
were you born on again? We are coached. I
with my eyesight projecting
my buttery heart into you.
I am not comfortable either |
