Try to remember it hurts. What? Being a daughter like a steaming red pile of spaghetti. I get spilled everywhere; I get eaten. It’s not fair. I lose the thread. They replace my organs with organ-shaped crystals. Crystal liver, stomach, art. To be a poet is to get eaten by a demon then spit out, all heart. My red hair drags along the wall. My steaming heart, pressed, gives wine. I’m hard pressed to give mine. To give bits of flesh from the mine. Shells from the sea. To be a poet is to be a memory, like the dusk. Is to whine, tortured by a piece of coral. Things were rougher than I thought they’d be. I’m red as a word, raw as a son. Red as a sun burning in the house of a demon. On the wall of a millionaire. It’s not my place to place them. I mine space, working behind a blind spot in thought. Then the gestalt shifts, revealing a mansion.