she is rolled and mound from
tanned clay. the limbs, twigs drunk
and sun scorched, fresh from spruce
saplings where she was picked and placed
here: shapely, ripe. i smell syrup across
the apartment room, salivate, between
(only five feet,
olfactory gnawing
like tics on peach silk)
the cheap vinyl mat laid as
her table, it is like a baby's first blanket,
we are almost sanctimonious as
we manger on crouton topics that crunch with
undulations in centrifugal conversation tied
in the hip to the ceiling fan; a greased pig
squeals lapping at sweaty liquorice strands
dangling from her head, but with a shiver
they are raven's feathers; she sighs with a yawn
(my stomach squeals again).
a stray draft of wind
sheens the matte coat of her skin where
i fade in with the upholstery, the walls, the carpet;
the crops she tills, simmering in skillet turn
beige, vanilla, then brown as caramel,
spun and spooned like her hands are a potters
in a distant clay mound village, hands cradling precious crafts
too soft, too brittle, progeny reluctantly sold to
fill a black-hole; i wonder if she is thinking
of Islamabad.
