Death Is Her And Lactating Poem by James McLain

Death is her and lactating; against hot nights
every day i see her to come, kissing me.
Her breath grows freshest when the worm
finds the way inside her teeth to lay with.
She finds new ways to wear her old make
up, as the milky eye lifts off the rose without.
The earth shakes us out, lifts us up and down in
clouds of dusty sin as bones infused are lodged.
Worms repeat the cycle wading in for release
filling some spot we kissed the moss grows hurry.
The white dress and tan flesh mixed together sewn in
cloth the bag, bloated and sweet as it floats across.