I’m dabbling in this bathtub of milk in a suburban bathroom/blowing bubbles into faery rings/I wasn’t found whole/ my legs were three feet apart and disembodied/ you thought my head was a new kind of ceramic bowl/ a kind of drum that made whistling noises when the wind from the cyprusses blew through it/ you found one of my hands on the barnacle rock where you used to collect mussels/ the other hand was in your library, leafing through the volumes gone soft with time and salt-air/It’s never fair/ you had no thread so you stuck me together with your lies and embalmed me in saliva like I was your own kitten/ you sewed me a sailor suit but the stripes were not crisp enough so you ironed it and I melted into a pool of lead/ witch you drank, of course/ to earn forgiveness/ I mettled your mind/ whittled it down to the bone/ now you are the child in this abandoned lighthouse/ I make you oatmeal and serve it with an ace in my mouth and a silver spoon in my sleeve/ the milk is the lactation off the roast/ the gristle is mortar between tiles in the floor/ I’m trying to say you deserve this but I know that I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry