of Pearl, Mother

for you, Władziu Valentino

You left me a nugget of Scandinavian glass

zipped into leather; I bound to my office door;

someone stole therefrom. The end, right?

I write you a coil of necks, pricking at the edge,

and I picture myself (the awful shame of it!)

on my knees, slurping ink (sour, unapologetic!).

You write me back (I’m necks, you’re backs):

the glass was a euphemism for crystal meth,

and have I considered my position adequately?

I left you off a roster I had written—on purpose,

but without purposiveness—which was partly

for safety, partly to make you very angry indeed!

You leaf through me, before my disenchantment

from intel into shrinking softness;

there’s a panic at the cyclone; I blame you.

I’m right to note that the two best pronouns,

“we” and “you,” disguise (respectively) the role

of addressee and the quantity of it/them.

Your right to a glass cylinder inside blue puff—

undisputed by me or the insurance company—

nonetheless tethers bull to factory: awkward.

Oil: each palmister’s method differs from others

in more matters than style; still, lez be real,

there’s a right and a wrong way to do it.

I’m mother, your pearl; brothers smothered,

and curl it in through the side-gob, hirsute.

You’re mother, pearl-mine: nut her fluff up,

and gouge it out of the throat, Liberace-style.