Dior Rouge 999
Bain de Pied, Sarah Moon
You want me
to suck marrow
from raw, singed hair,
but mine is
a feudal infancy
and a ghostly shade
half-way withered.
You want me
for my witch blood,
my icebox skin(it
burns under
kinds of light)
and the smoke
which comes
off me
all hours of the night.
Put me in
a washtub.
Feed me the violent
ends of flowers.
My fingers
find religious openings
in tree trunk,
plant life, electrical
sockets and pumps—
shine your light
on me. I’m dead &
flush against kitchen tile,
I find myself
halfway
to desire and you—
then I stop.
Lampshades
scare me away,
they make me
blind. Alien
bulbs
make winters of us all.