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[In a time clot]

In a time clot, mother dabs her cream-lit face & goes on smiting limes into the carafe. She has returned from her voyage and the only diamond I have is not to her liking.

Her tin muse hangs from exposed beams, all legs and arms and Venus hair.

Mother is sun bait. In summer, she tamed bales into splitting. She was all crammed heat and a mouthful of needles. She was a space to insert a smart mare. Now she bears her carapace on the meat table, a turning spit under a staggering sum.

Today she excuses herself from the solution. She spins the cord around her neck and tightens; dials a number from her own payphone in her own foyer. I wait patiently for my refreshment, toting my lint. Mother’s ringing begins like rain, but nothing is like rain.