Now I know what it is to bite the tongue inside
the mink stole: I do not want
my inspiration
stolen! ms. merongrongrong, for you I do
my husband's hairdo
in a kind of flip. Now for once I want to build
a data cage, a firewall, encrypt a fiber option, to lock up
his image, lock the tick
into his rib. I grasp his slim wrist and mask him
for the gas: what a pheasant operation, his plumage
brilliants as he whites out
in closed caption, under glass. A harmless operation, a lipid removal or a viscous
camera drip. ms. merongrongrong, please
do not misprism me, for normally I am not like this, I do not
creep or crypt, do not go hissing, bent double,
kettlewaisted, clinched. When pressed
I spread; when pinched, pinch; shiv and shinny
my way out, make a finger mouth
that shrinks the moon to a pupa, shove it in my purse
to pupate on my cabbage stash, my petty rash
cashola. In your stall, I dump the stenchy
contents of my clutch on your counter, your clerk Moonlight
scrubs
the Wikifile, slicks the nail down to a nib, mums me
in muff, ruff, muffler,
ruffle, stomacher, pannier of ribbed silk, knight's visor, hutch
where I keep my prize rabbits, ms. merongrongrong
I and II, which liplop the moonlit garden in stitched minks.
ms. merongrongrong
you send the Dutchman moon to touch us you cinch
my betrothed
's throat till he has to swallow
what I bite, he drags himself to the window to vomit, he drags
the bile sea in drag like a widow
with a ghost lover, mourning over the suck white sand in white
I wear a glass pane
over my face, a teller's window or a train's, ms. merongrongrong,
I stutter by in sailor's guise, adrenal sink disguised
as swagger, a thickened chest wall, a fat and padded neck. I go
a specimen, I pose
between the slides for my decline, ms.
merongrongrong time
thins and quickens, I help my husband
up over the lip of the Dutch oven, his flank is ripped, one paw
limp, one soft ear hangs by a thread, I lug myself up the path
you have prepared for us, the trestle, the wooden tread—