i am suckling for sustenance since you.
mouth puckered at daisies and doorways,
gumming the frames, the hinge;
i reapply my lipstick for the fifth time
to feel something there. tongueing the inside
of cheeks and coffee mugs and anything that will
listen.
i teethe on dictionaries, paintbrush handles,
gnaw on canvas. hook my sharpest resolve
into the patchwork quilt and moan, splitting
the threads from their mooring. i run my fingers
over marble, press my wanton palms into glass
bottles, twist fists inside the pillows
my belly glides against strangers
like a whale belly on the ocean floor. i stretch
in slivers of sunlight, but it is December and
all i want for my birthday is for you to find
some heat in that cold shoulder of yours for me.
relief is a foreign language being muttered in my ear.
relief is like my father, is like you.
the world has gone sour. you hold me with hands divided
by every known continent. maybe one day a girl
will find the tiny keyhole to your affections,
lodge herself beneath the pins just so,
enough for you to offer Pangea.