Your breasts are humorous. That place on that street where those people purchased things to force away their troubles has closed due to the economy. The woman took too many pills and scarred her thighs and that man hung himself in the basement. Daughter is a verb. Outside, pigeons place scalps into puddle of snow. Garbage floats in the water like abandoned kayaks. I can smell her today: masculine breath, beer and childhood. He calls his father by his first name. For instance, her womb scares itself. For example, the hanger was made of plastic and too smooth to scrape. Giraffes symbolize foreskin foresight of the Egyptians. I painted my car orange, so parking lot does not lose it. I should have painted my mother too. She was carried away in a suitcase, body bent like the straw used to suck up her last meal.

Aimee Herman
Aimee Herman is a performance poet, who can be read in Clean Sheets, Cliterature Journal, InStereo Press, Uphook Press's poetry anthologies, you say. say and hello strung and crooked, Best Women's Erotica 2010 and Audio Zine. Find her writing poems on her body in Brooklyn. Reach her at aimeeherman.wordpress.com