you’re one smack shy of a cowlick, precious
but my heart still sinks like a sow collapsing
in a burning barn whenever you slink down
the rabbit hole.
the ghosts lurched ‘round the table
in their tweed suits are still waiting
for their pudding,
but when their milk spills just right
I can see your face rising out the cauldron;
artificially white, wax like beans
that if I rubbed too hard you’d squeak.
you were always gutless,
burrowed beneath your waistcoat
as you choked the eel in your fist;
it’s been so long since you held me
like that, long that I’ve squeezed
your suet dumplings.
I know it’s hard to snatch a hare, bill
but your limbs are so thick
having devoted their long lives
to banging the lard for the pie—
do you remember?
the hot prickle on the back of my neck
as you took me by the tail,
wobbling on trick knees
as your pitchfork teeth grizzled my tits
to the ground,
and that lily-liver sauce
dripping out the gaping hole—
the richest sort you ever lushed.