a morning rope hangs and loops
into a porthole
to the lush fathoms of the sinning Sea;
her blackberry jellies occasionally bursting
with sudden fatherless birth,
or as a dead duck plummets
softly into silt.
she thrives in herself,
a nasty drunkard pilot,
shaking her bellyful of fermented inborns-
their tiny skulls clacking,
their thin mewling sounds straining thinner
poor things chew each other
from her drooling head
flies the scent mummification
stringy olive sinews hang limply
from the lower lip
thickly lidded eyes always at dusk,
a numbskull cannibal alone in her waste
of afterbirth, enzyme smeared to her elbows
but her jade-skin ripples glistening
fine-cut facets with every
sweet, seraphic face of the sun.
© Copyright 2017 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.
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