My mama, centaur-sometimes-mystic, sculpts me praying hands
I break open to score messy reminders into the flesh of a dark rock
surged upon, and overswept. 

Desperate palms in search of Zora’s feather-bed settle themselves 
around broom handles and wastebaskets. Consorts of La Madama 
surround us throwin’ whispered revivals against a spiral of owned objects. 

Coming for to carry me, coming for to claim, coming for to clean…