Abox Of Parts Poem by James McLain

What is a start, to finish,
sewing fingers on feet,
toes on hands, heads in chests,
her breasts i placed
on her back,
where they now grow, to belong.
With a special test for her tounge,
that i split in two.
Now able to converse,
out of both sides of her mouth,
just as i drew.
She tells me her story.
it is not like the rest, out on a date,
picked up in a bar.
Slipped by a hand,
that came out of the dark,
to park that pill,
inside her glass of beer.
Her pinks,
are a lastly bled,
mutated horrible sled,
pulling dread,
as i search for her eyes,
lost out of insular colors.
She never stops talking, about
what she will do, when i open
her mind,
and sew shut her oven,
and leave her to squander her dime.