Do not think arrangement.  My mother’s mouth is full
of fingers, her wrist scraping a brute tongue and she has a throat 
choked with the black pebbles of Tibet. There is no sound
in this exorcism.  This is an orifice so suicidal it cannot die anymore.
In this house, another failed kill means a turning to the baby. 
Maybe I am to drown in the vomit filled bowl, maybe the bile
is my good Easter dress and I am expected to look pretty, to pose
my shoulders in a perfect ballet arch and pirouette face-first into the pool. 
Maybe these patent leather shoes are mother’s hands and my tiny toes
arteries to the heart.  Asphyxiation is a green fist coloring
the brain’s left hemisphere—one half of the world flushed down the toilet. 
Do not think brilliance. All this suffocation and regurgitation undo the mechanics
of any plan. It’s really very simple: too many lips slaying too much air. 
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