By Danielle Searby.
Blood looks like motor oil,
engines choke and fall apart.
I cough on your fumes.
Servitude looms.
I've wrapped my legs around you
and cleaned your bones of all your marrow.
The engine comes to a grinding halt.
Standing tall becomes my fault.
Years ago I must have asked for all
the clean dishes I have passed.
The gears never change,
the growling engine threatens to derange.
All you touch becomes mine.
I've cleaned your body, your house and your mind.
For some reason I look under my skirt
and fine engine oil and all your dirt.
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