Sister.

There she sat, in a puddle of soup-
Crème Tomato, or so it seemed:
It was not till I grew full knurling teeth
That I learned the girl was not meat.
 
I took her skin for peasant clothing
And wore it over my churlish pale.
A handsome dress, is all it seemed
With sloppy entrails fastened like bows.
 
And then I scalped her infant head,
And grew the hair like crystal weeds.
Sewing made my fingers bleed-
As I caught my thumbs, nicked my crown.
 
I squeezed my hoggish foot into
The insides of her dispatched legs,
And shivered as the veins rekindled
Like a human water-flume, slovenly.
 
For several years, I have continued, thus:
With the dead-girl’s flesh sutured to my own-
In a vain attempt at bringing her
Movement again - not from perdition.
 
Angel kin – I’m not unlike,
Epicene or parasite.
For little flowers, when dug up
Often turn to Lamia.