Lily Duffy

*

AND THEN LILLIAN TOLD THE PRUNING SHEARS IT WAS TIME

1.

Put it in your mouth, Lillian.

Keep it there
until the table
is cleared

Things can get worse.
Open that bag.

The font on this teleprompter I’m reading from is

2.

Obey because it is easy
like having teeth, supine
like undulate faster.
Recline like
so

fetch me that baton.

3.

I am best looking
garish when you

corner. Hustle is
a revolving door.

It is something so reasonably
underwhelming.

I bet you believe that.
I bet you wrote it yourself.

4.

There you are on your
tricycle, Lillian.
Heavens. Look
at you go. Positively
zippy in that

full-body brace with
a carcass about
the mouth.

*

*

WHY I REQUIRE YOU QUILTED (SILENT-AUCTION-OFFICIAL)

For Thomas Courtney Vance

What is the husband
but bifurcated, twin bed
scheming on how to refinance
that ass. In the kitchen, you
feign cake, nothing: barbershop
quartet layers. I bust through
saloon doors force-fed and
flashy with the ankles, announcing
breakfast. We are generous
with the smelling salts. No one
is sure what I spelled out in
firewood while you heaved
tremors in the forest, but the
ponies, they are now elsewhere.
I do not want to go home is what
comes out of your mouth. Your mouth
as a phone ringing: yank you off
a wall. Him eyeballing lecterns, stilted,
fixing to bundle it. You witchdoctor
torsos like water: all submersion
with a tripped-up curtsey
release.

*

*

ONE WAY TO MAKE MONEY IS TO KEEP REPEATING THE SAME THING

Once I could slug
the filature and girls could
get it for the century we
immediately woke
by prongs. Blister-packs
get scorned where ratchet
sleep concerning
digestion finds you rankled were you
ever oblique in the barn (I didn’t
ask about decay I asked
about the barn) latched the way
nausea purrs: a light boil. I didn’t
feel bad about it and look at me
now. I could have
signed that guest book all
goddamn night.

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