give me ribs

I want another rib to compliment a stolen rib.
A background of dancers and drink-holding ribs,

rib-crushed dancing to Scrapple from the Apple,
horn squawking over the ensemble’s smolder ridges.

Give me chest pain as I stagger on river rocks,
tongue a red ribbon hung and over-ridiculed.

Because I leak remorse and seaweed ribbons,
I’ve got ribs in my nails like a snowy lake mothered.

Ribs re-written in a simple language, not ancient or shifted
a trick of the syllables who suffered overdone ribs.

Give me mundane so I can show off the fanciful,
a garden floor of chairs woven in solvent ruins ribbed.

Basked with a border of sun-trellised patterned
monkeyshines under an umbrella ribbed.

I want a fish tail fluttering blood red, a bow-tied
tongue dressed for an opera house run trilled.

Give me ribbed bodices. I’ve got time for crushed ribs
but don’t break my bones like ice dancer’s done ribs.

Flaunted flexibility but old enough for scans
improvement of calcium or leaches gum-gripped.

Give me no antics, no song, no water hideout
where eels with their practical jokes hide unribbed.

Laurel Benjamin is a native of the San Francisco Bay Area, where she invited a secret language with her brother. She has writing forthcoming or published in Lily Poetry Review, Turning a Train of Thought Upside Down: An Anthology of Women’s Poetry, South Florida Poetry Journal, Trouvaille Review, The Ekphrastic Review, among others. Affiliated with the SF Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon and the Port Townsend Writers, she holds an MFA from Mills College and is a reader for Common Ground Review.

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