She wanted a long, lean body,
closed her eyes as she grabbed chubby hips
licked saggy tits,
tried to re-enter, womb over fist.
We make so much of this small discharge
this exclamation mark.
A flower-pot of love-sick soup
is ready on the back burner
Eat, my child. Eat my child. Eat.
We don’t really need another’s imprint.