But, like, where is the body?
                                        Girl in Feminist Literary Theory wants to know. She’s got

precise long ringlets, tendency toward baby-doll shirts. Yes, and opacity?

PhDs round the table join in, What is the opacity of the body?
                                                                      And the writer . . . is she here in the text?
                                             (Hermeneutics) Where is the body? Where is the body?

All poets on standby: we prod our bran muffins,
plop baby carrots back into Tupperware,            our underarms cold with irritation.

The professor trails white chalk across her grey skirt, filling up the blackboard
with heteroromance. Oh?
                                                             Tell me more about that marriage plot,
                                                             I am licking my fingers and picking up crumbs. 

I’m crying fruit tears inside the Goblin Market. I am Lizzie calling Laura up the
garden. Did you miss me? Come and kiss me. Never mind my bruises, hug me, kiss
me, suck my juices.

Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you, goblin pulp and goblin dew.