Mag 292

rabbit elaine usdin

photo by Elaine Usdin

I turned my soul inside out for you

Wept in phlegm, in blood, in motes of dust.

I painted my red lips Avian blue

In exchange for access to your guild

But having peeped I find it empty.

The rabbit having sprung from

My breast unannounced

Assures me admittance if only I follow.

My hips are wedges of granite

Crammed into a safari

That cannot be undertaken

Without a subsequent loss of life.

Nothing good comes from a tin can,

Lest of all a heart though I have been

Known to preserve in times of famine.

It is not what I lack but what you cannot

Seem to find that disturbs me.

There is always a watch spilling

From your fingertips, always a distraction.

Face down in a row of disposable cups

You haven’t even neglect to spare.

There is nothing, positively nothing

In you that should entice me

But to my consternation I wait.

I mean to murder you, to shrug you off

To indulge you through various modes of starvation.

I am a librarian, a codex, a purveyor of words

And fashions that are too monstrous to lend.