FANTINE

Here and now, breathing
is your perfection bottled
like breast milk pumping
from salvation.

My breasts, sore like
a nation’s self-esteem
rising and falling with
offense.

You too, fine child,
will produce a child
bleeding, scorning
society, a puzzle piece
ripped into two halves.
You fit, but with a crease.

I don’t feel you,
but I know that you
are swimming in
the great nothing,
the black abyss
like a black hole,
like a chronological
warp of time,
scattered like dead
souls floating,
transmigrating.

You are my life cramp,
like atoms merging
together and conceiving
facial blemishes like
whores in a night club.

I am a whore in a night
club. He approaches me
with his morality tucked
in his back pocket like
a Swiss army knife.

His little atoms floating
from his breath pierce
my effeminate organs,
a biological need, Grey
Goose vodka like atoms
swarming in a molecule
hive into my ear.

My breasts swollen
black with sin.

Cleanse me.
Cleanse me.

With prayer like cupping hands.