Green glass glitters

in the museum of the undrunk.

I stumble through the doors at noon,

unfamiliar with the concept,

gibbering in an outer language

shaped as a sieve.

My inner contents spill from my throat,

the dam where the winter ice has broken.

Like an explosion,

I unfurl

exhibit to exhibit.

The glasses are remnants

of another woman’s more

acceptable thirst,

chalices and bowls her penchant

for racking up posterity.

In my pocket I have

a wet match,

a blank schedule,

a barrenness described

by my late parrot

as an “unbearable brightness

of breeding.”

Too fertile to breed,

exiled from my ambitious hips,

my spaces sing like a heavy anthem.

Museums like this, their vessels

gauche and green

are not for women like me,

a person of filling,

then emaciating,

then filling the goblet again.

With a sigh,

the glass on the edge

slides forward,

shatters.

In a cool, inconvenient marriage,

the wedding vows thatch the roof.

Rain makes itself at home anyway.

The bride drinks.

Groom swims.

Outside,

a torrent ready to swallow them.

Mechanical clouds,

the pendulum to the pit

sink lower and lower.

Since I was born,

the threat of water has

been as a canopy above me.

My diving gear is holey.

Nothing breaks down

With a promise of pain.

My lungs will fill as sponges,

And then there will be

the catharsis of pressure,

the implosion as the

weight of water lays on me

like caramel on whipped cream.

Mechanical clouds,

the pendulum to the pit,

sink lower and lower.

Since I was born,

the threat of water has

been as a canopy above me.

My diving gear is holey.

Everything breaks down

with a promise of pain.

My lungs will fill as sponges,

and then there will be

the catharsis of pressure,

the implosion as the

weight of water lays on me

like caramel on whipped cream.

Forgive me if I’ve already posted this. I don’t mean to spam you. I lost my place in my document and I’m not sure exactly where I left off.