One
The dog is waiting to be let out.
He knows the shape a day
should be, how warm the rocks,
how long the shadows.
Two
Someone sent me a set of stationery
with my name at the top in naked bodies.
Two little berry-boobs hang
from the top curve of the shapely S.
The H is a woman and man
facing each other,
an erection for the crossbar.
Three
The nurse explains that repetition
is the last refuge of humanity
for my son. I should see his face,
she says, when it is Pudding Wednesday.
Four
The A is two women leaning together,
a strap-on between them. The R
is a man with a woman hanging
from her arms and legs, his neck and waist.
A woman on her knees holds his hips.
Five
Once the dog is out of the pen,
he wants in the house, wants his smells,
layer upon layer in his corner.
Six
I wear perfume to the Home.
The nurse says it will help—
it is the perfume I put on my son’s
blanket before they took him back
to the nursery when he was born.
Seven
The I is two men and a woman.
The man on top is balanced
on her face, flying. She stands
on the chest of the second.
He runs hands up her legs.
Eight
I almost made an excuse—the dog
needs to be let out—he doesn’t understand.
Nine
She says there is a baby-place
in each mind that carries
a catalogue of first smells.
She’ll tell him everyday now that Sunday
is Perfume Sunday.
Ten
When I get home, I sit at the table.
With a red felt-tip, I color the tiny breasts
and little penises. I hear the dog yelp,
and walk to the pen to let him out.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
