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.