- Non-Erotic Poetry
- In Her Middle Dug It Out
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I remember one winter.
When Mary was in her pains.
She wore a red scarf,
out into the garden;
she hugged her fishbowl,
and looked up at the sky.
An ugly sky, sullen, powder.
She was dying, that was so.
And I fed her fudge, sweet fudge.
To chew with her excedrin pills,
and let the ten moons flow.
Bleeding gums, and bitter chocolate.
She made it to the new year,
my whore, her little habit;
but at the stroke of twelve
she died.
Just a little before my birth,
she groaned over and
she died.
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