loves rubber babies
and any clay-soft,
tit-adoring thing:
Why have you forsaken me?
Is it my arrowbones?
The scars I see with?
Go on, honky, try me.
Stick your son like a gun in my ribs.
It's flesh you smell, not wax,
and believe me, daddy,
these wings are no prayers.
I will claw your dimpled hands
and rake your eyes,
and twist that plushy image
like a dove's neck.
I will not have you amused
and babbling with your play-doh:
I'm shaped too like a cross to let you off so easy.
(c)Suzanne Underwood Rhodes
from A Welcome Shore 2010
Canon Press, Moscow, ID
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