palatable for Mecca

we whisper in the men’s latrine,
pedal deeply inside each others’
guts                gray-scaled baroque
renderings of your hunger,
my hunger churning
maternity leave

who will be the first one to
forget our inside chyme?
who will mew the good-bye
phrase?

once,            we called you a Sally
now,    you lay hands on my neck
     a frontiersman lapping up new
menarches                       shoring
   ¾  sleeved    mommy-and-me’s,
hopscotches up my arms
casinos, a regimen of the dating scene,
a cubicle, a rave pantry, tribal paint
in my trigeminal nerve (the chewing,
biting, swallowing nerve)  now, crazy
straw doubling my belly

my ghost towns teeming with news
              networks renegotiating “no,
please, no” subdivisions      task light
reaching a brand new nest,  opulent
with semen-so-silly               he does wear
his ring in a marrying club   in the morning
we pluck chin hairs at no-turn-on-red’s

who will buy my bifocal no-doze when
my stats are beaten so low?   my résumé
littered with a green screen of nothing and
a magnetic plate of days looping on days

my Übermensch, a man palatable for Mecca
and me: pancake errors, microwave s’mores,
                           all with passive verb tenses