Affectionless, beetroot-red psychopath, you
thrash your balled fists and buttermilk feet
against me –
throaty guttural howl.
Tiny hurricane.
Our languages are different, and you will not listen, or
leave off tempests and tantrums – you pit yourself
against me –
gurning night wrecker.
Squalling knot.
My trifling pleas melt as flakes of ice in your hot breath, and
I feel the weight of you in my cradle arms as I clamp you
against me –
floral nightgown muffles
the bawl.
ataraxicat 