teacups

late again. scurrying off down the blackened, blackest holes.

where are you, always, when I need a voice in my head.

where babies are made. mother. madhatter hippie hair.

the color of tits. and tongues. and that’s the sort of pink

the china rubber ceilings. oh, all tan and gleaming, stuffed with liquor

of your belly. to make antennas in the walls. bounce me out against

of course, you must get past the doctors long enough to make metal

will shrink it. someone will call together a party on the lawn.

down a rabbit hole, someone will grow it. someone

caterpillar. I guess we all knew magic, if you slip a baby

like a mess of tea in your belly to the birth of a giant

sat me beside you like a tiger lily, or an alice

tree bark mother, was a hole in the trunk.

I guess whatever you managed to clump carried.

much like a wicker basket of water to birth me

rather, your hair, I should say held the water

all day long stuffed in teacups.

all day long stuffed in teacups.

rather, your hair, I should say held the water

much like a wicker basket of water to birth me

I guess whatever you managed to clump carried.

tree bark mother, was a hole in the trunk.

sat me beside you like a tiger lily, or an alice

like a mess of tea in your belly to the birth of a giant

caterpillar. I guess we all knew magic, if you slip a baby

down a rabbit hole, someone will grow it. someone

will shrink it. someone will call together a party on the lawn.

of course, you must get past the doctors long enough to make metal

of your belly. to make antennas in the walls. bounce me out against

the china rubber ceilings. oh, all tan and gleaming, stuffed with liquor

the color of tits. and tongues. and that’s the sort of pink

where babies are made. mother. madhatter hippie hair.

where are you, always, when I need a voice in my head.

late again. scurrying off down the blackened, blackest holes.

“teacups” first appeared in Muzzle magazine.