If you should find me with my head in the oven,
and my other head hanging from the broom closet,
and my torso flattened under tire,
and my hands in a bowl of oranges,
and my neck breaking for a man I barely know,
if you should find me like this,
please let me know what waits on the other side.
Please give my words a violent bath
in ammonia and make my skin
as fresh as a mothers’ skin should be.
Please wrap me up in plastic and place
me under heating lamps
and interrogate me before I leave.
I want my guts to spew outside of myself and
my skeleton to dry out in fresh air.
The air has become so stale in here,
I am as dry as an old loaf of bread.
I am collecting spores of green mold and nobody
knows about it
and all of the living organisms go around and around
their clocks;
the women with their perky breasts and the
men with their swollen cocks
and all of their concern with pro-creation,
while I sit here and rot in
the truth of who I am.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 