he stroked across her callous feet, her plump belly.
Yeah, she heard the sizzling oil in the darkness,
felt it crawling on her skin, but it slid
right over her, in one ear and out the other.
And, yes, he located water, but not
with the divining rod. It was the force
of his gravity that drew it out of her, and what broke
was the placental torrent, drenching his hair
and flooding his eyes with its sting of salt,
washing and washing and washing.
She can't forget that look on his face,
the infant mouth, constantly rooting.
So even now that he's fending for himself
in his hut in the forest she shipd him bits
of the sfterbirth in brown paper cartons.
The edges are greasy and his name is smeared,
but he knows what it is, knows he has to eat.
She wishes she could make him swallow,
play those games where the spoon is the airplane
whirring into the hangar of his mouth.
She would smile wildly. Oh, well.
He's a good boy, who craves meat.
Surely he will find the right utensil
and eat her words, blood
vessels, and eventually flourish,
grow flush with her vigor,
her pride and her joy.
