TO MY MOTHER, ALOUD
Send your snail mail and I’ll hide the table salt.
When I stamped my last mail-order
bride, she threw the book at me.
Her velvet twinset in divorce court
the only good pairing that came of our match.
Now, I work hotlines pushing human tissue
samplings: primed for fucks or transplants.
Do not apply my transferable skills
to mucous membranes. That beefcake
of the week, he wracks my hunger pangs.
Give me your food, give me your meat—
yours, the second best fit to my lips.
I’ll take you in like homeopathy, knowing
you’re likely quackery. I’ll swallow
what feels good, if it comes free.
Let me blow your Venezuelan
vuvuzela, watch me put my stops
in all your holes. Oh, player, wind
me up. Sight-read my crotchets.
Let me cut my bold italic
on your thigh. Will you blurb me,
if I read your novelty? If I compliment
your margins, will you press them
to my letter? I can’t seem to get my head
out of your gutter. Remember,
a prose is a prose apropos.
E. CANINE MCJABBER has published poems in several journals and zines across Canada. A travelling salesperson by day, they live and write between Alberta, Ontario, and Quebec. Their travel entourage consists of their two pups, Bonnie and Clyde. This is their first awardwinning poem.