The slope of her back.
                     Petite teacups
against the hurled aggressions of the day.
       After dinner, she unscrews
her tin shoulder and pours out her
cracked-bone paraffin.    It pleases
me to have her disjointed.    Makes
me feel safe to have her
grounded.
       I oil her and watch
as she whirrs.    Sesame, pork
fat.    We grow our meal, her hand
down my throat, my teeth up
her thigh.
       The wet ground holds us in,
bakes us a familiar
taste.
       We sit inside,
licking the lips off our beloved.