a penultimate thunderstorm

the clamshells your mother hangs from the garden gate are never as numerous as when the plumber calls the plumber with his mustachios of tar with his muscles of brass and tubular left arm and the hooks with which he pins her to the ground caressing her thighs and making her nightingales sing his beret and his antique blunderbuss and his crystal lens that is stowed in the back of the van where the stopcocks sing for only the brave deserve to embrace the dead

on the other side of the molten sugar tower the masks and husks and centipedes and cocoons swing from a thread and the naked human blade carves its wheels on the name of the virgin tree

the plumber lifts his mighty hairy tool and fells the timorous antelopes of dawn your mother drawn by the scent  of his open wound pours oil and vinegar into his shallow head and lying down where all the world can see she begins to unbutton her face and then

the plumber presses his wrench to your mother’s side and weighing down with all the force of his spine he bends her waist and opens her granular legs drawing his watch to the hole where the tadpoles go your mother gasps and from her gaping mouth 

frogs appear and swarm across the land

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