Do not forget that the flowers she buys you are dead:
they are wilted, a brown shade of decay. You have nothing to say
as she presses a kiss to your forehead – 

an apology for being misled.
Misled? You must try (do not cry) to remember that
the flowers she buys you are dead:

they are a sweet distraction instead,
(never an apology)
as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

But the kiss is so nice, your cheeks turn red.
(No. Remember what she did.)
Do not forget that the flowers she buys you are dead.

Close your eyes and dream of everything you never said,
(do it now, right now)
as she presses a kiss to your forehead

and flutters her lashes. She looks so pretty. (No). See the bloodshed
and let yourself get angry. Open your eyes and 
see that the flowers she buys you are dead,

they’re telling you that nothing’s there. (Listen to them!). You misread
the situation sweetheart. It will take everything in you
to remind yourself that the flowers she buys you are dead
as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

Sing me your sweet lullaby. Please push it down my throat; 
let me taste its honeyed chorus, for us, I’ll be 
your jolly sailor on this little wooden boat. 

Let me drink your candied voice (don’t 
stop) until I choke—the antidote! I’ll be 
your jolly sailor on this little wooden boat; 

so fill my lungs deep, with a sugared anecdote, 
so soft on my tongue: so lilting I’ll weep. I beg you, 
sing me your sweet lullaby, please push it down my throat. 

I promise I won’t  
scream as you tug me further downstream. Let me be 
your jolly sailor on this little wooden boat. 

Make blue water black and ripple, please, 
pull me under with a kiss; 
sing me your sweet lullaby, push it down my throat, 
I’ll be your jolly sailor on this little wooden boat. 

  My little Briar Rose, only fifteen years old;
prick your finger,   hurry                 quick—
Let me fuck your little body cold!

Tumble into a deep sleep, as the wicked fairy foretold.
Fall quick for the spinning wheel trick
my littlest briar rose. Only fifteen years old 

  with pink lips I know are red—
so bold I can’t help but lick,
please let me fuck your little body cold.

Unswathed in white, a sight to behold;
I groan, wrapping your little hands around my stick.
  Oh, my little briar rose, only fifteen years old

  you won’t feel a thing, I told
you. Drugged by magic,
you let me fuck your little body cold.

I’ll make little babies grow
inside your sleeping belly.
  My littlest briar rose, only fifteen years old,
   oh, how I fucked your little body cold.

after Margrit Shildrick's Leaky Bodies and Boundaries

Uh oh, a spillage!
A woman has leaked―become water
and spilled from the bounds of her
devalued body. She has escaped!
Now fluid and permeable, she is
slippery: hard to catch.
She seeps into gaps, floods cracks
and transforms into something new.
A Self, no Other: undeniably certain,
treacherous―a threat we must contain.
Danger! Disembody that woman!
Get the paper towels and mop; wipe
every last drop. Caulk cavities,
all joints, no time to stop.

after Maira Kalman's Women Holding Things

In Ma’s handbag, she carries a nail file; sunglasses and a
lippy―Revlon’s Rum Raisin. A classic. She carries a black
ballpoint pen for emergency birthday cards, a chunky wad
of baby wipes and a spare change of clothes. You never know,
she says to the snotty child in her right arm. Dinner bulges from
Ma’s bag. Tonight, it’s spag bol, tomorrow fajitas―oh wait, no;
Ruby has gymnastics, so fajitas on Wednesday, and pizza tomorrow.
Must wash her leotard and leggings tonight, otherwise she won’t
have anything to wear. Umbrella, car keys, hairdryer, kitchen knife,
hope. Ma walks lopsided to balance their weight. Squeezed into sealed
sandwich bags, are courage and disappointment. Thin like water, they
often leak from her bloated handbag, but Ma is prepared. She carries
towels just in case. In the inside pocket of her bag, Ma holds the home.
It is bulky, and weird-shaped―hard to support,

​

often soggy.