A Breath Is Taken; But Not a Sweet One

The polar regions of the Sahara continue ellipses on mountaintops. Snow capped syringe tips point at the uterus in my incubation chamber. A bomb shelter away from a good pregnancy metaphor. Never understood the use of pronouns. “In my day, the clitoris of a pear was a mere legend.”

Weekend compasses dare to fashion waves with taken tonsils and introverted mannequins. Random accounts of history. Accounted accents. Awkward moments. Momento. Mentos. Me.
“She peeled back my face with tweezers, opened my sinus cavity with butterflies, and breathed silence into my larynx.”

Hollow cult-cut turkey breasts. Streetsweeping genres. Androgenized antidotal evidence. Eyes tell me otherwise. “Hopefully this is the last time you talk of hearts.”

Cardiograms and coloring (inside the lines) in three acts. Paintings in C minor. Minor lacerations to the bedposts. An ultrasound speaks of nothing but compound words. A breath is taken, but not a sweet one. “Holy N+7 Batman!”

Earl Grey mistreats his wife with diamonds and bergamot. Vetiver swamps and cardamom crimes. Cauliflower bouquets. Tumbleweed in a salad served in cases of sublimation.
“Just in case, here’s a notebook and a pen so the neighbors don’t hear you finding yourself in mirrors.”

I caught you sleeping with magic. There are no rules in romance novels. Your body was woven in syntax theory and contorted in subversion. The rhythms of your nostrils flaring in and out like my interest in the rhythms of your flaring nostrils. “Anthropomorphism is not the same as anthropophagi, but they are equidistant.”