she comes in on a squall line
like merlin in the moat
pond water in her tonsils
tar balls in her teeth
she settles down in a tropical
depression
right front quadrant shouldering
in
raw-cuss knock-turn-ill bliss
I’m anointed in her spark shower
twitching in its rodent rhythm
with pontoons and nutria
rainbloat ablutions and saltwater
evasions
she says so much
depends on the second distribution
holds forth on the freakenomics
of shrubbery and slavery
munitions and manumissions
the trashy face of cotton
fields in winter
can’t tell if it’s plastic bags
or fast-food wrappers
strung up on the brittle stalks
but it smells like money!
she muses through her
cough syrup smile
so much caravel tripping on
simple syrup seas
says we were
incontinent dribblers
of rust bubble culture
spice-craven and rickets-riddled
brains bowed by our own
flavorless continent
it seems we were
bent on
expunging
ice age death grudges
with the swift breeze
of the maxim gun
maximized profit
for shore
she says with bee
breath says
repeat after me
after me profit
for shore
among the edible remains
it’s clear she ate
the wrong part
(c) Immaculata Abba, Blackpool Pleasure Beach, June 2017
