deepundergroundpoetry.com
Calliope
I’ve lost a lot of blood. It runs out
of me like God. My mother was
ballerina-white. Wore flapper
dresses and silver tap shoes
while dishes rotted in the sink.
Danced to the sinuous rhythm
of milk sweating to the floor.
I hang suspended over the bath tub,
smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Every hope lost you could ever
grow to love me. The shelf lined
with girls in mourning gowns,
gray as the dolls they found
floating in the river. How the
hemline of my dress speaks
of child abuse and gin. Wolves
and witches in our red velvet bed,
my body opening like a book
then closing gently around you.
The dryness at my lips. Once
your hands fed my mouth,
tasting of apples and cedar.
of me like God. My mother was
ballerina-white. Wore flapper
dresses and silver tap shoes
while dishes rotted in the sink.
Danced to the sinuous rhythm
of milk sweating to the floor.
I hang suspended over the bath tub,
smoking cigarette after cigarette.
Every hope lost you could ever
grow to love me. The shelf lined
with girls in mourning gowns,
gray as the dolls they found
floating in the river. How the
hemline of my dress speaks
of child abuse and gin. Wolves
and witches in our red velvet bed,
my body opening like a book
then closing gently around you.
The dryness at my lips. Once
your hands fed my mouth,
tasting of apples and cedar.
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