A year and two months big, won't you finger-
tip sift at the corner of my eyes, follow the crease
'till you feel the tick? Find him escaped out the teeth
gapped wide, pushed at the air on the inhale and
lost his grip. Run from inside me is what he's done.
Willowed liar buzzing through my hair, distracted
by the too-ripe sweet beans growing underneath
the lace and static of morning breath. Plunders,
they are no longer, but the arresting details
of a well worn body. Lipstick drawn to soften
his frame, his wings punctured and spent, we hear him
rifle through the costumes, shuffling feet,
he comes to us now to zip him. As an innocent,
he gasps and gulps the air above the stove,
turned to high, spitting clicks, no cherry bonfire,
but I choke on the stem, when all I wanted was a bow.