Quoth Bombay

Come to my armpits,
quoth Bombay,
and flourish to the peak
of what your dreams can fancy.
Stroll on my shoulders and
throw stones at the sea,
here, you are allowed to
hurl pebbles at others even if
your house is of glass.
They came to her and
her breath,
they lapped up the dust of
their wishes in her eyes,
they stabbed glass shards on her arms,
mirrors we need, they justified.
Hung rings in her virgin earlobes
and swung on them,
we need some air, they claimed.
Like any woman, not knowing
how much she has capacity to bear,
said Bombay,
leave me alone,
I am sorry, I called,
you know no mother,
you know no whore,
forgive me for I beckoned you,
stop calling me yours or
I will shrug you into sea
made filthy by your own shit.