stuck at the bottom. Why don’t they see
she’s a flower that’s blossomed.  Her integrity
is gauged by the hungry mouth of words

on the page. She doesn’t languish. She
jumps as the bones in her tuna-fish sandwich. And swells
as the cull of the slaughtered. Never forgotten –

her lines are more than silk cotton. They’re dancing
machetes that strip-tease the rind off
the wheel of the cheese faster than a caterpillar's

sneeze. And blows it to pieces, serving it
back as a dish of whipped cream.