The Paper Anniversary (3)

Paper gowns are not as soft as cloth gowns are not as soft
as dust the uncle who cussed and threw bottles

his face of mottles this pace of piecing of piecemeal
quiet thrill grown shrill grown silent as a mole

on your spine oh you’re divine in your shame
this blame your name is mud in my eye a chicken

thigh I licked gnawed to the bone this moan
a wishbone caught in my pale clean throat