Will you lay down with me today - become my body’s compression - push down so hard on my bones it re-aligns the cricks in my once-malleable spine. I was a gymnast; I was a crook; I was little red riding hood mounted astride the biggest, baddest Woolf - I was karaoke to Cake and Gwen - flower power, ganja store and MGD grace; so wasted yet functioning - making out to some frantic pace - with lowlifes, throw-outs, and on-the-fence-gays - no shame did I hide - climbed aboard cocaine piles, twenty-somethings...caterpillar mustache rides.
Why not lay down with me here - this platform of motherhood I am defiling; the 42, no, 43-year-old age lines - curve as do my thighs into tighter places; unfinished theses; scientific theory says that the chicken begets the egg - yet I beget both the ova and the underdeveloped hatchlings - I beget your orgasm, as well the frightening end which stalks us; unenlightened as almost all endings - all unravelings...
God isn’t available today. And my belly goes so untouched -