Out of Victoria endlessly puking,
Out of her mockingbird’s throat, the musical splashing,
Out of her full-mooned midnight,
Over the toilet to the pipes beyond, where the workmen taking their breaks
wander’d alone, drinking coffee, smoking,
Down from her toothy jawline,
Up from her ropy intestines, knotted and knotted as if they were leathery pythons,
Out from her stomach of vegetables and cheese,
From the memories of her kitty who meowed to her,
From her memories, poor woman, from the fitful coughings and sputterings I heard,
From under that one swinging 40 watt bulb glowing yellow in a malarial fever,
From those piquant moments stolen from time, there in the phone booth,
From the involuntary reflex of her epiglottis, never to cease,
From the menagerie of words she play’d in,
From her word loved and favored above all others,
All now at once they return to roost again,
As a flock, squeaking and gibbering at dusk,
’til sleep, not avoided, rapidly overtakes her,
A woman, but by this weakness, a little girl again,
toppling back into the sheets, soiling the futon,
and me, chronicler of these times, keeper of her sacred records,
While miserable in another state, trapped in a viscous, sticky embrace,
Embalm these moments, gently.