if joy is a politics of citation, then my mother doesn’t break down
into anything
if joy is a politics of citation, then in my palms, wombs. then my
mother’s tongue slurping slurping bone canal lig ament lig a ment
lament me. i mean head tilted back slurping slurping marrow. Hollow
brimming now emptied. i mean marrow run dry. i mean bone run dry.
nothing. i mean what are in these bowls anyway.
O tonight i wetted my body into a steeling thing.
O sting where is your victory? you promised me a trick, but you
have the same things in your hands as yesterday.