mother what gave you the right to bring these bald faced women to my christening? harpies are a habit and not a great one at that even with the mad girl calling my name pulling off the sticky pearls as i sink further down into the floorboard underneath curtains i gave it a blue hat you know, the one with the parrot and no eyelids? black shrouded with stars imploding and retreating to the beat of your heart in utero baby's breath fogs my eyes and you run your hands over your swollen womb and pretend not to think you are Mary placing a wafer and rosary underneath your tongue whilst the body of eventual ashes and milk from your breast gums and trust on your areola unabashedly plays John and kicks your kidney at the sound of the first hymn