Solar Plexus (my mother is away again)

In your absence I twitch at your bedsheets, clutching yellow to me,snuffling for your wild smell in their tessellated flowers. Please come back,I hiss at your room, at the unconcerned child unclasping her hand,exhibiting a citrine guinea-pig through framed fingers, tiny and still.

City of Jewels. You asked for letters to be left on your bed;of course, spell out orange six-petaled tears onto the face of a child,some troubled years older now. It’s just indecent at this age,to have torn my perineum, splintered my pubic bone and never left the home.

I snivel harder, but your tail escapes me with its upward swing,while an inverted triangle roots me in my own square room. I clasp myself woozily,hands refusing to separate from skin. Every attempt ends in these red sheets;but I was coiled three times at least; next time the child and pig might rise.