after sylvia
& tina
I look for you
in the crinkle pop
blister foiled
two moon mournings
after I swallow
third eyes
mahler’s fourth
vision of heaven
waiting and
just like that
puckered rings toll
bells, wake
the love parade.
I smell drizzle
then dehydrate
hard yakka on the fly
and blood left brown
on skin which vespers
spittled spirits
‘cos when you’re done
I try to hum how I died
a little bit
(excuse
the french),
how you’ve
mopped up when I came
to settle
to bury you so much
slower :
bottlenecked
to arterial
my mouth will tessellate
middles
of your virus
or at least a la niña
where we blamed girls
for the reservoir
where youse are a flood
orange-lit
bastard musk
and our throats pitch here to
O god
or something kinder
but still
blasphemy,
and we learn to wean
the diminutives back-
arched, mouth pillowed
covenant to tithe points
of milk-warm,
crystallised honey.