AnnMarie Eldon

 
ex-positions (and the science of mantra-sharps)

bread

I do Hope.
Cum hits my cervix
and broken past swims
against better judgement, I

break. We conspire in whispers
pillowed against hearts’ blood groove
the light lightens back stiffens back running down parallel about three
quarters of the way up

ah black lip mother ofpearl
rare, the rarest

you are here once in every about-nine months
you seat onto me
speak chipped flints into me
secretesions my clit a choil my sweet bare darling darings; you

give us this day our daily
cyrogenic quenching
but for now this
is truth.

(but)I’m fed.
Stand on my bed and look down
upon me and put love
on me

and I believe you
yet not yet the knives are out
the sheets Unclean, beautiful
the Keeping of the secrets
     dutiful
a sheen of hope
I do.
I do.
I do.

esmarch resection

lies by the catlin’s
and we have slept
my defences amputated. A

virchow with several interchangeable wooden handles
neatly on the frillies between us

and it could go any way
but you turn and wake and kiss to the right your left
with your tongue a sweet li’ll sugar cone
in your right cheek
and I peck this

and sticky on my shoulder
is your dried
and you rise
go

make tea
and the silence brings
cheery cups
but the knives are out

false edge

I love you
there’s dinner which you bought
at the market, with you

a framelock which locks the blade which locks the blade
‘n the open position using
a pre-stressed section
of the handle,

and cold chicken
good chicken
not cheap/preventing accidental or premature closure.

thank you

full-tang

marry me to don’t ask but say
with a quiver in your voice
and gifts on the counter
bread that’ll not last
this day

but knives out
lies you’ll pay me with

next

time. There’s always hope
smell of you in my hallway
zytel where we’d shared dreadless exploits
blood taste from your nostril
you breathe and I follow to where

the knives are out
tomorrow, cutleried
somehow strange
and pilliaried,     so

   ah yes, so to bread
I don’t do Hope.
I do dishes