Wash your hands in the blood of a million dandelion clocks,
            coat yourself in onion skin, the paper, the pearly layers

make the congregation weep in longing. They don’t know why,
            just out of reach. Scud a puck of soap under your nails

for protection. Line the windowsills with fertilised eggs and
            rags gauzy with menstrual blood. She’s already there.

Offer her your eyelashes, your baby teeth, your ephemeral
            self. She likes flute music but open mouths will do.

White your cheeks with the sloppy oil of fish eyes and paint,
            all the colours, she can’t decide if she’s Tokyo red

or Delft blue, all the shades that make up her undulating wrists.
            Hold up a mirror, round as a cheese, and let her bask

in herself. Let her bathe. Her shoulders are strong, marble
            and tidepools for palms. She’s all craters and crescents.

Don’t forget to hang mothballs from every picture hook.
            How easily she is gone, like a lover, the door left open

and tea, chamomile, undrunk and steaming. The unwhite
            wet of golden-skinned pears. A chime of seashells.