Sara Mae

Pathos!

Drunk & putting in two tampons,
I become a body horror movie star.

Packing is an abundant homophone.
In one universe I am tweed-hipped,

ass to the camera, tucking picture frames
in a Samsonite, dormant selves rattling

the glass. In another universe I keep
a flower vase in my soccer shorts to

guise myself boy gargoyle. When O’Hara
talked of “yoghurt-work”, the screenwriters

took it to mean the figs tugged fresh,
the milk at their stems, fig wasps umbilical.

I am in a bug costume, curled up in
a seedy circus tent. My love interest,

a fruit bat, glugs your heart strings when
he lands on the leaf which holds my home.

One time, I screamed at a party. A hand
on my breast: no humanity attached!

But when you trim my hydrangea,
we leave petals in the bathroom tiles.

They look like scythes. The special
effects team outdid themselves.