On the other side of motherhood a boy who is no longer a boy sticks out his tongue
Bursa and Busra are anagrams whose fingers torch the lungs of teenagers diving into history’s nacreous wound.
Each drawer that you open shuts you down
The device that has four dark corners is a room that disrobes you
First toes are bent to the will of shoe leather, then middle siblings.
On the other side of motherhood a boy who has become a metaphor bleeds slowly to death.
You have been warned not to stick your head into ampersands
To rub shoulders with her you must walk backwards out of the corner of your eye
Round the bend of a knee you catch a glimpse of a shattered pearl-skull whose petals are disowned by the near whistling missiles and the far whistling masses
A box by any other name is still Pandora’s