If plagiarism’s ceiling
fan in her diluted body
leaves a salted outline,
wet and grainy then

These boots come
from the little girl who,
folding a kite, grows toward
a weed, a tiny root growing
seed in tyrannical hues of this
checkout line’s butterfly wife.

No wait, these slippers come
from a part of her that eats
from the shimmering cloud’s
white spoon where
she milks horses who rush
the cusp of sleep

Literally, these steel toes come
from making love in a parachute
basket she convinces herself
of the danger in expiration
dates as our harmonica doubles

Cremate and billow with cream
turning song beneath
the rug’s nakedness,
cocooning future corpses
we pull closer and lie upon

Image by Rasha Kahil