two weeks asleep and the skin
has begun to part on leg-backs like
little toothless mouths leaking
onto satin sheets.
three months asleep and now made of mouths:
a chorus of gummy oozing things sucking
at the sheets. some start to grin,
flapping open like gills gasping.
six months asleep and thigh muscles begin
to dissolve like sugar, hot ’n sticky
mattress stains. bits of tendon settle
into fabric folds, an ulna lays
in pooling liquid like a popsicle stick.
two years ‘neath gossamer garments,
dress dried, draped barren over bones.
still a shadow of the body: dark like syrup.