The Melting Woman at the carnival freak show that hides its beauty in the dust bowl,
flaunts the ugliness of unwanted foibles,
Watches the sweat roll down from hinges of her eyes, crests of unfleshed lips, and a paused tremble at the finger tips before they pitter pater on dirty velvet.
See how it displays the way wax kisses honey-combs. She’d say
“It’s the same sound muffled boys make, the kind of tears
invested when they figure out their mother loves them”
And I would tell you to bottle them all, all the tears, in the smallest of green viles
so they would exist as the love letters you were too cheap to pay the postage for:
on once white doiley tablecloths.
You forget that’s why you now collect the matted hair from drains,
braiding them with your heart into bows that you pin to street lights because you say that
“ they’re the only thing that flickers.”