out
of
it
p a g e t h r e e
copyright1999-2001, Christine Hamm
Break Apart
It's a dream.
I'm lying
on a metal table,
And I'm watching like one does in dreams, in the 3rd person.
The surgeon takes
scaple between rubber thumb and forefinger
and begins to carve.
My blood sprays like I'm a rusty broken
radiator.
He coils loop after loop
of intestine around his glove,
yanks
and hands it to his assistant.
The heart and stomach
easily tear free.
But my lungs,
pearls whispering uncertainty,
leave me hollow,
Because you,
you are my breath.
The Filling
In the months after,
I became obsessed with
cream puffs.
And tartuffo.
And raspberry tarts.
And cannoli with chocolate chips.
And lemon meringue pie.
And chocolate kisses.
And honey soaked, glowing backlava.
And German chocolate cake.
And eclairs.
And coconut dusted marshmellow balls.
And twinkies.
And double-chocolate chunk fudge ripple rocky road.
And honey glazed donuts.
And almond croissants.
And oatmeal cookies.
And cherry pop tarts.
And key lime pie.
I was five again, in an orgy of whip-creamed cheeks and chin, imagining that from what goes into the mommy's belly and
out of feeling full
comes a baby.
I was 18 again,
confusing sticky cum on my lips
with honey.
I was with you again,
full of a soup of cells
with a heart as
clear and slippery
as a red
jolly rancher.
I was with you.
I was with you.
I was with you.
Aphrodite at 50
Breasts
that once invited
rising like bread to your tongue,
have hardened into
wooden paddles.
Her mouth wafts
burned cinnamon.
Black bees hum in the back of her throat.
Her tongue,
no longer sugar coated,
spells out incantations
regarding the bruised hearts
of roughly held daffidols,
and weeping
estatic