trip the breaker
break the beaker

mother a mouth
an isthmus wide
enough to salt
the marsh. to outshine
mist. saltgrass, sorry
I’m not

lob your 
sorry through
the transom as if 
we could close 
the wind down
for the night
damp

as if I could pull 
the long machine 
years from
my throat snake damp

the wick snip damp
the wire
hairs close to
the neck be the oak 
figurehead to 
launch a thousand
burning martyr ships

could knead egos
& dough eat pizza
without checking my stomach
neaten the wrong
with a scrunchie
& fistful of
crumpled ones.