trout

Sir, Realize This: The last time your mother fed me was 2 weeks ago

Liane Ikemoto

I grow fat salty water thighs and drift
wood.

And it’s just a little crushing shore,
if I were pulling tides.

I grow fat on the aesthetics and acoustics on Fairmont Street,.

Put on maternity leave, I pass calculus from a kidney’s throe.
If I were electricity in Oakland,
there would be one question left in my life: why?

I grow fat on the flying monkey’s back.

Sweat and smote the cowardly lion, that tinny thing, if I were Dorothy;
He has chapped whiskers,
and charred wings.

I grow fat on the thought and the talk of “physical symbols of mental adoration… that, and the delight,” Lady Laz.

Temptation is more than the jerk-snap of a 1950s erector set,
when skipping Satan’s balls down sidewalks on a sunny day,
if I could make an O. Cole man out of him.

I grow fat on fibula and phalanx.

A series of anatomy lessons:
something to prop up my New College Latin-English Dictionary,
if I were the scholar of his skin and bones.

I grow fat feasting on the twelfth, the floating,
the Adam rib, one to be removed.

If I were the last of his worshippers;
If I were a white breast waiting,
I’d be his Every-Single-Time-[fuck]-her-over. But
if I were the banister or bedrail,
I’d hold hands iterum.