If we were the grey meat
of boiled chickens
they would know better
how to love us properly.
Would know it is best to suck
the oil from their own lips
rather than try to parse it
from the dead water.
Look, our bobbing girlheads
in the pot. In the tub. The river.
All that hair and smudged lipstick.
Is that a feather?
Look, all those gorged eyes.
Imagine, all that sight.
