donning a nightie at bedtime, i die
                once again—cherubs,

dyed golden, come ribboning, tear
                from my face. the lace of my merrywidow

cuts me to shards. some things are not meant
                for shadows, yet still

they asphyxiate, ophelia my eyelids
                blossoms stye-ing.

in the marsupial future i grow
                you within me, then you grow

old & deliver me back from the land

of the dead: a hor de oeuvres
                on a platter, the time of me

murdered & egg-whipped. we share between us
                a secret song, reverse-labor,

collapsing taps upon a hospital table. it was my insides
                that

made a psychic out of eyeballs—mythmaking,
                all the bedrooms of my life

into scabs along my chest. i can taste the wallpaper,
                your nursery muslin,

the inside of my own cheek
                the night before your birth.