My sweetheart clips his toenails
On the cultural weekly.
When nobody’s watching, I’ll lick
The scissor blades – maybe there’s
A speck of dust left somewhere.
Cutting my tongue deeper
I’ll mix the blood with the dust
And mould a small child.

I’ll put him in a matchbox
Lined with shreds cut
From the armpits
Of my sweetheart’s shirt.
Let the odor intoxicate.
Let the knees of passing women buckle.

From the sink, the bathtub,
The bedsheets,
I’ll collect every little hair.
Such hair he’ll have
Carrying woman’s palms
Buried inside.

When my sweetheart sneezes, I’ll dry
His handkerchiefs on the radiator
Diligently scraping off the remnants
For making teeth – carving,
Then polishing with lemon peels
(they’ll flash at girls when he grows up)