I spoke to her on the phone yesterday.

She called me an id(iot).

It is clear to me I am not that.

Rather, I am an eggo (waffle),

sizzling on the griddle

of the twiddling fingers

of her one hand; the other

twiddles strong syrup

in the pantry.


She told me a story yesterday,

Of the world that will be.

She whispered into the receiver:

“Ghostly in the window, shivering in the glass,

I whisper dark melodies to the moonships swimming past.”


I spoke to her on the phone today,

calmly, like a father might.

She said: “My room is tiny come visit!

I said: “My womb is tiny (non-existent).”


Her story continues:

“I drank a cup of orange crush.

I drank a cup of orange crush.

(This is now two cups.)

I peed two cups of orange crush

Into the sink,

And my pee was yellow.”


While she spoke, I day-dreamed:

“O, there is no solace in this world.

The earth is barren, my love porcelain.

O, my penny tips…

O, my fate…

How hollow it all is…”

I knew I was rude.


We recently gave birth; my son

sings to me each night before I sleep:

“Her eyes with his urine she irrigates,

For she knows inside, then, of a closing gate.

For here he comes, orange, to interrogate.”

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