For My Attention
I opened a melon last night and immigrants spilled out of it.
Careless and eager. They bit me for my attention.
My mother wore a red suit because she loved her job.
She spoke with italics sprinkled in. A mouthy sequin. Only for her.
And so she could share with me.
Tell me stories about paris. Debonair painters who love her.
That I could hold myself like a good melon.
Bright and eager with stories and beautiful painters who are my friends.
I believed that god could rest with me. Like a white tired dove of david copperfield’s blond women.
She would rest on the wet shoulder of my pillow.
Your voice can startle you.
“I’d have visited sooner.”
An appetite. A fish.
Its scales scare it.
Its habitat scares it.
I’ve been pretending to be fine with it all.
As in like nothing.
To feel the eely middle of the moment.
Holding the umbilical cord in one hand and a pair of diamondback shears in the other.
This ice-defying birth that I’ve engineered. One fear after another.
Take your hands out of the icky painting and say place your hands on her head like so.
And bless me. Bless me. Bless me. Bless me. Bless me.
Repository of your own octane rest. Bless me for vitamins.
More teething for the biting. All the better to bite you with my licorice lickitysplit concourse.
Bleeding down the superdome.