Hold your frame while I tarnish. Be on time in your
gray blue wool suit. Squint and slip out of your shoes.
Be oceanic for a minute. Porcelain organs crack.
Mouthwatering overripe, grown from almost everything.
I am your hand. Gold filigree decorates your neck.
I am socks. Your calluses: useless. I drop water
on your head as I reach over you to quench my thirst.
Wool shorn from the flock what makes you naked?
Wasp. A husk. Cloth woven: warp and weft. Your teeth
have their vulnerable gums. Hands are claws. Cracks
fill the chest. Textiles pulsate. Silk, you’re pretty.
I am my own neck. Hello.
Elizabeth Witte lives/works in and around Somerville, Massachusetts. Recent work has been published or is forthcoming in Shampoo, Glitter Pony, and LIES/ISLE.