Your birth mother has the bluest eyes,
as if their color had made her cold, then slowly
numb with pleasure. Attendant to the holy
I offer her hot water, a blanket. Induced, she cries
a flock of spells to the quickening, hexes the squall
in the hallway. Unplugs herself from the wall.
An open gown frames her art. Tattooed thighs,
arms, neck: cupid’s arrowed heart, branching
snakes down her back. Her hair, blood-
red wine. She keeps you dream-feeding
until full. What can I feed you? My words
pour out like milk. She bites an ice cube, curses
the boiling moon. Alive & wailing you turn
from her breast. You breathe my breath.
