the tapestries are half done on
the walls above the open kitchen.
there are potholes spotting the
tile floor at where the worn
wooden table sits and the bare
heels of a woman in a bathrobe
stands. we slowly pan up, framing
pasty legs sleeved in tape and clay.
her lips are wrist wiped, smeared
boisterous up her left cheek and
down across her cold purple breasts.
towering above the threshold of her
crown, we see an unshaven phallus
half erect, sprung between her legs.
eyelashes flash blue irises to spear
brightly among mediocre makeup and
fibers of false hair falling out. there
are polished toes, chipped red and
another naked body on the couch in
the next room.
this one is frail, wrangled to the soles
of the vintage furniture, grain gouged
to expose poor complexion and a
broken fever. there blooms a garden,
green and yellow from tongue; wallowed
in wiry roots. contagious sensitivity is
all that exists. the third alive, hangs from
ceiling fans on fire with smoke detectors
for eyes. the box television on the night
stand speaks static noise to ivory lizards.