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Caitlin Capella

Where's your telephone, my minou?

My mignon, with spiral bound stethoscope,
tell me how you'll tell my temperature
my wag-tailed, floppy faced michou, where is that table saw
with the stainless silver, diamond-polished, Mako-toothed blade whose snapdragon
screws leave rust-stained, oil-scented reminiscences
of Callixtus's flight into the sea?
You're a tyrant-beagle primped and plodding, my mignette
with poly-tethered tachyscope
you animate your darkroom daydreams
cheat your widows
plunge to sea
Where is it that you keep
your ablution baskets?
the ones with helix chambers?
the ones that turned out to be just beetle wings?
I am asleep in your catacombs, my minou.