Cavitation

Now the mulch has come between us seven turns,
I’ve grown dramatic, prone to existential snits.
I wax funereal at lunch.
I wear a little stain beneath my robe.
The woman with the ostrich-leather harness,
I am she. The coat-check tender chasing down the train.
My mother says the feralness in me is unbecoming.
She still puts everything in jars:
wild honey, fruit preserves, the slurry of the heart.
Come hear me talk!
Advance in age beside me and this pine!
Is yours, like mine, the edgeless kind of soft?

People on couch
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