by Myfanwy Collins
Wrap me in the starry shawl of your wandering eye.
Put a hand on my head and feel my brain rub against you like a cat.
That is what it means when I say, “dear.”
And what we will share is the same notion: were it not for the moment of your conception, all forward momentum would scurry back to the place from which it came, dragging its ass along the ground to wear away the shit.
Is it a full moon over my broken garden or is it your twisted eye rooting me out?
Blind, the wind would climb inside you and poke its finger into your chest again and again: Do you? Do you? Do you know what I mean?
What I believe is this: the wind is plucking your fucking eyes out and throwing them up to the sky so you can watch me.
If you must do something, compress me with the white lens that shows my fine distinctions: eyes ringed with cucumber seeds; legs made of vine, fingers gripping soil.
What you will see is this: the sunflowers are just skeletons—clattering; the pockmarked tomatoes linger and then burst, oozing into the greedy soil where I wait, my mouth open wide letting the last drops fill my wicked bones.
(as first seen in N.O.L.A Spleen)