spilt up from the hollow embroidery of my belly,
church bells spit across the meadow.
This season, the old classmates arrange pears
on tea towels and momma

and the tapestry collapses—
this garment of craving.

My tulle, the tender innards
of a bathing dress.  My organdy, mollusk skin
of fire.  Rising shantung,  carnivorous whisper
against a starched cake.

The fat bell slows its pelvic nodding.
Halleluiahs erode into the lake
a chord of puce.  The avenue swallows ash
blond like a runner of wedding photographs.  

You're all I'll ever waste on wanting,
counterfeit infant,
gleaming mannequin,
ornate diatom—

pin-tucked into my nada-belly—

September stirs the French magazines,
the not-mother cleans her empty bird.
The atlas unfolds like a carriage
window tearing into a thicket.