Repair shop
Worms and dinosaur blood, toil and fuel,
Doors I’ll hold for you.
Pure, old as moonlight, the marbled
Cloister of your pleasance I’ll affirm
They will come for your museums, my love.
They will come for your big, fine Cadillacs…
choke-weed and cottonmouths infesting gardens.
So what? A fish bait fate this birth hook?
Before thought, beyond need, freed
Because of you, because love is thicker.
Tired of tending? Offering? Hoping a bite?
Nectar, somewhere, prevalent as air?
Seen it? Have you?
The world, the worm turning?
Hungry?
Eat.
It was a cottonmouth they said.
I pictured a dentist pushing a bunch of cotton in my mouth.
After they had put my gums through torture.
“I hate cottonmouths” I said.
“I didn’t think you knew what they were,” my mother replied.
“You take me to one once a year, don’t you?” I wailed.
My mother’s friend gave my mother a strange look and rushed away.
It was years before I understood why.
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