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Ten: the constellations circle not ‘round
the Pole of North, but the axis of thy spine,
Nine: thine ears droop down like flaps of a hound
A laden stench of flaxen wax, not mine.
Eight: thy musty eyes tell not crates from plates.
Seven: not even view the sun with mirth,
only Six ticks of the clock, thou berate
Five: thy toes plant garlic cloves into the earth
with pungent fumes, pleasantry long bereft.
Four: thy hoarse voice repels all ‘ffection, hence.
Three: thy tongue still yearns for Mother’s breasts.
Two years of falsities etched in permanence
— One, a banner I cannot wrench away
at my heart’s crest thou had a’placed and played.
