O mother of railroad spike and salt, dandelion and charm. O
mother of candle wax, patient as a museum, see what I’ve brought
back with the lips of your first lover: the unrequited axe handle. O
mother, here is your constellation of poppies, red heads to hang
above his bed. Here is his pant-leg of rust, his shoelace of guitar
string. Here is your guillotine, O mother, built from sperm and
birth-slap, aluminum and ipecac. Here is his arm of hemp, his lung
of carnival tent. O mother, your wilderness at his ankle, your
knuckle in his, your mouth mouthing hush now, sweet sweet
nothing. O mother, here are your hands, parentheses around his
throat.

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