Fat and swollen like a pearl;
translucent, and engorged on
blood, you hung there in
my curtains until I pulled them
down. You hit with such force,
like a rock tumbling down a
black mountain, or a comet
falling out of a web of stars!
You looked like varicose veins
throbbing on the surface of an
egg loosely wrapped in molded
tissue paper, or cloth-hairs stuck
to a family heirloom. So I
left you there until you
collapsed in yourself like a
dying star, or the soft spot of
a newborn’s head frosted over
by gossamer silk that dug
its pale-white hands
in the wood-rot.