Marilyn Monroe Dreams of Growing Her Own Penis Under Roots of Trees
Music by Christopher Aitken

It's been 33 years she thinks, lying back under
damp ivy, long enough for other movers and
shakers to do what had to be done.
Being dead's a little like being in a

bomb shelter. Cozy she thinks and peace and
quiet were enough for so long. Only now,
she thinks of a bone that wasn't her hip or
wrist, wasn't her ankles on a grate

mosquitos clawed as they blew air up under
her red dress, even her lips down there
going rosy. She knows how long its been
since she's had more than enough other

flesh wedged up inside them close as a Siamese
twin but never as comforting, never there
just for her long enough. She feels the leaves
mulch her toes, her grey hair cradling her

bones, a better pillow than a man who'll roll away,
keep her awake snoring. For a year she dreamt of
another set of boobs she'd hip hop all night
with, watching men drool. What a relief to be out

with a joined twin, on her own but not lonely,
someone who'd be there not only at the moment
of death, but even after. She imagines something moving
between her thighs that isn't her own hand, in its

bracelet of need but a bud, a bloom, a flesh lily
she won't have to shove what's left of her legs for, that
can fill her up, moving gently, a if she was a virgin
(and she might as well have been its been so long,)

knowing exactly what she wants and where to move it,
linked to her heart, there for as long
as she needs it, oozing crystals she's heard
are the rage and then like a kitten embryo

that won't be born and leave the mother's
fur or make a mess or claw or stake its
own territory, be resorbed back into
her blood maybe to swell and bloom

again under a red hunger moon.

Music by Christopher Aitken
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