Flat black stripe on cheap wood,
You flap, or rather you could
But for your fixings.
You’re teasing - round and yet not round,
Wobbly wheels; first indication.
I feel indicated.
Tablecloth tacked up, dirty and frayed; you aren’t a den anymore.
I can’t make dens anymore.
I don’t see them; I see a tablecloth.
I see a wood panel, blu-tak.
I want to play.
I want to play but
I am weighted, I drag the cloth down.
The paper is just paper;
It’s like Nosferatu, the hand’s shadow on that belly.
That belly which is isolated from the rest of the body,
The messes of the body,
The messes to come.
But for now, dry;
No slime of ultrasound, no blood of birth.
Just sound, approaching.
The hand seems reluctant at first, alarm and pitch increasing as it nears.
The instrument is unreliable,
Like you, mother.
Are you a siren?
Tapping your language into me like fingerpads on taut skin,
Like when computers were human.
If you are siren then I am light, or sound.
A universal language.
A language of flame, unnatural,
Where vowels are emphasized and meaning shifts,
The comparator blinking our differences
As we burn.
As you sound, and I burn.
Mother, your sand patterns skitter on my surface.
Sound into my matter.
The ghost in my machine.