I am ready _

Hey, your boy’s pulled loose
and he’s running, pushing two empty hips
up over the cavern, but no, it’s only cracked
cement to him, and there’s a moth’s wing pounding
in your  throat.  This is not vomit dancing
up; it is youth regurgitating.  It itches

doesn’t it, this is his unfulfilled appetite
for words; he’s knocking loose
the language in a bottom-scratching dance,
his hand at your hip,
your mixed palms pounding
away these monster cracks

I must fill with eyes cracked
dry with sight, the itch
to crawl inside and pound
the molecules, the boulders loose
into tiny orbits; my hips
the center of their gravity dance. 

You, mother, even squirrels dance,
even children crack,
admire, hurl themselves into these cavernous hips,
the wide divide, the itch
returning home; it’s loose,
not lost.  Slender mother, put the pounds

back.  Feel proud
the extra body dancing
inside, dancing outside; do not lose
the curious smile that cracked
first at the appeased itch;
I know you, too, long for hips.

It is for you this earth splits.
You fear every pound,
but even children are meals.  They itch
themselves anywhere and their limbs dance
as if there is no divide
between the new and the lost. 

Do not loose the tiny beating
wrist.  Clutch it to the hip and dance
until death cracks each bone and tulips itch. 

– 

bt