There is a room where I like to keep them,
two circular ladies,
boxed up and contained like a carton of mushrooms,
white and full,
round and
tasty,
like earth.

I can hear them back there,
screeching
their female poetries,
as they launch their hefty back-sides
and fling their fertile arms
around that room,
thunks on the nightstand,
clatters on bookshelf,
knock of clothes hamper.

They hold shiny blue masks
up to their checkered faces,
and their mouths spill the beauties
of my impending death,
round and round
and round, "she's so washed up,
so wrung out,
I think she needs a wash, she's dying in."

Oh, these round cruel women,
they breathe out sun-made poems
from their meaty lips.

They spit the fat of their dresses
and roll lines of flowers between their thighs.

Sometimes
I bring a chair
and sit outside their door
just to swelter inside
their pretty vernacular.

Oh, yes, they are rotund,
singing perfect
rhythms from their wide lungs,
and I watch the roses curdle,
entwining the soft levels
of their supreme rib cages.

Sometimes
I open that door
and let them shoot out their dainty words
like prayers
and then I watch
as those two monstrous bodies
rattle on the floor
like giant teething rings.