You tell me to call you the inventress,
as you untangle yourself from your brace,
as shadow hugging your ankles, your dress.
Imprints of greens and reds from painted lace
drawn on breasts. Tell me to pull the drawsting
so that i can see the valves of your heart.
And your blood is the flood that makes you sing
as you paint a jungle of thick eyebrows,
the face of Diego lost and hiding
in your naked sister; you grew apart
on your forehead. And you lie on the bed
and open wide your legs, only to find
your two lost vertebrates and a small hand:
the baby never had a chance to land.
