on the off chance
one of the buried
has a shovel
we dig
with our hands
while telling
these stories
of men
with headaches
whose women
would gain weight
to absorb
the souvenir warmth
of wanted
pregnancies
which made
some of the women
smoke
so as to be
in a constant state
of unveiling
bruises
seemingly given
by demon
toddlers
yet to be
crossed
by hunger
hobbled
creatures
being that the bruises
recall to us
the botched
renderings
of paw prints
and then we’re on
to the women
who don’t smoke
who are puppets
with frostbite
and believe
the lord’s stomach
is sometimes
bowl
sometimes
plate