pink goblets glisten
champagne damp kissing
deep pipes slip in
twisting crimson blushing brides
swollen shifting tides
blue sighs
high rise capstone
twin torrid moans
softens impaling trombone
milk cream weeps
sweet flowers sleep.
The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
an ex-lover is dead in
the bedroom,
under the sheets –
fiberglass
posing as silk.
I try to convince the ceiling
of my intelligence.
Laying on my back for three minutes;
faking fever.
The eggs are dead in the kitchen;
the coffee is growing mold – I am
polluted like the grout in
the shower where he
pulls and pulls
until
satisfaction debilitates his words.
Till he cannot
tell me that the eggs are dead
in the kitchen.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 