With clit and acid and chronic. Not once
did you call those three names. Shame. I avoid

grandma’s trailer now, keeping my essence
from the winds that called you out, teased and toyed

with you, gone four months pregnant, that called you
to your knees. Does grandma know that the breeze

still calls you? That once you wrote your taboo
in low Genitalese? … do words of sleaze

still spill out of your mouth? Does your daughter
know what I am? A waft of longing. Ghost

that said I love you … or have you out grown
romance? Will you show her how you’d conjure

me with a mouth full of cum? No? — At most
tell her which names bound us: mother-maid-crone.