Piggy, Is that You? It's Me, Canary!

My, you look real good in a suit, and ain’t that ivory             cloak so becoming of you! Listen, me and the girls know a thing or two about fo fum obelisks, about being so

            stuck that taking them down from the inside is best. Like when I swirled pink like pew candy between teeth;             have you learned to smile with them yet? Learned how to

feel your feelings instead of holding a seminar on how             to leap; baby, you could learn that real quick in a holler such as this, with just the right amount of fire and licorice–

            you might become, oh, winged or bow-legged, depends on the omen dealt by mountain women, knew the heights             before men decided we had to name ’em, tame

            them, strip down til bare was the only bear, til the coal mines spat out children like bubblegum. How far does two             wheels get you in Salina, Kansas? Further than

            two legs, well, I suppose you had four when t’was us vs. them, when my flesh folded between yours like a hymnal virgin;             made me the monster in a denim dress, yes? How

            could I hate you, when in your language I found the exigency to answer my crisis, to build a ladder to heaven and keep             falling. I made you out to be the feathered-thing

            but you, yes you, would never forsake your flesh, would never spread your legs for death. Once a girl, I did not know I’d             grow up to be a prince, did not know that turning

the pages would give me wings. Darling, why do you only             leave pins on your windowsill for my feet? Remember, I prefer the finer things: cuttin’ a rug or even better, your bedsheets.