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.”