By a lime-green poison dart frog bracelet
Glowing in the black light

This lowgrade fever
Unfoldslikev.rareflowers
On a particular
Night

Deep brows are rustling
Through
Her

As
Microwaves scrape the panel-sides of the
House,
Even in the
Dark

I have only the touch of my hands
Left -
And the muscle memory of
Something  
That almost became
What it was
Supposed
To be.

//
The ladder of ribs
Up along the skeleton, there.
Bones made of shame (and milk-myth),bleaching under
Sun and
Moon.
//
Tanned
Leather pouch softens to the morning,
Fallen from where a neck used to
Bundle sinew and rumble out
Something made of air
//
Still stuck-frozen to the hard soil and leaf-
Litter .


Ah oom, ah oom .

Turns in a wet hand
As the other holds the leatherman
Preparations for a dog’s breakfast
As the earth and sky
Also

some call megod.          
my fingers are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling

like gems.

We imagine ourselves among the dead, the dying, and the monsters that inhabit those spaces
As a way to feign immortality
In that we are comforted in the temporary untouchability of our placement, just off screen.
Or
Rather
In the shrinking down, to the screen, itself.