crane carnage

You have opaque white flaps,
with lavender-white shadows
like morgue skin, tissue-thin, taught

Little bodies compact in their own way
Folded up where they open, undone
after exposing themselves

You have cheeks so clear, so transparent
I wait for them to pop
Smooth porcelain other-bodies
crease in reverse, crinkle at the seams
and count all the moments between

March 2014