Alien Queen Mother

I

You were born with a nest
full of eggs in your chest
laid by some
alien queen mother at
the dawn of time for that right 
res­o­nant
fre­quency and 

when her daugh­ter speaks it an egg will 
wob­ble, mi­crowave 
words heat it to hatch­ing and a phoenix! and
my chest is full of hot feath­ers pin­ions tickle my throat a rush.

This gasp­ing feel­ing, a tu­mult as claws
grip the di­aphragm I want it wants to burst
forth and we will pell-mell to­ward her on
golden wings and the ash from your pas­sage will
choke her throat.

So stop! Swallow, lar­ynx burn­ing. 
But, af­ter this crush, to 
hear her voice!

We choose my words like un­ripe plums, red, round,
sup­ple skin but still hard. This one a breast,
that the bole from which Adam was fash­ioned.
She re­turns words in kind, a code of del­i­cate
dis­pro­por­tion.

II

It is too much to touch; each other, the twin bird
we sus­pect nests in her chest, the easy word 
like a cro­cus in the crack of a side­walk.

III

Yet not enough. 
To touch is to ripen;
flesh bruised un­der my fin­gers,
bite the hip, taste the waist.

You shall all learn that
I am my own kind of an­i­mal.

IV

Alien queen mother, strands of
mol­e­cules spun, en­tan­gled in cen­turies
to make us mar­i­onettes, your eggs take
lit­tle sit­ting in your lust
for chil­dren.

V The right tone must not be thrown
lightly.

We’re
not all strong enough to wait. 

Speak your piece