norman bates writes a love poem
How, in the summer, we lie on our backs in the cool grass,
the wet sun dripping through semen
spun clouds and your face
stretched taut over yellow bone, dry,
a shock of straw hair falling over your eyes
as your head lolls and dips
O! Your body is a mute melody,
a starched white face,
stiff fingers, feral eyes.
My hand coils serpentine
under your honeysuckle
blouse, your nipples hard and brown
Mother with the evil eye, you
were a homespun soliloquy
of nonsense and rage, your apron
wet with sweat as you wiped a
butcher knife against your skirt.
Come and let me put my tongue in your mouth, mother,
my lips against your ear -
And remember how soft, and how warm.
You were the sacred chalice, my cold and bitter satchel.
Listen mother - it’s so much easier now, to picnic in the sun,
to tell you every wanton wish, make every gentle touch,
and to fill the silence of these endless afternoons
with your wasted mouth, your parched infinity.