While I have yet to pick my weapon of
ultimate dispatch—
the looped string attached to the doorknob;
the pliers;
the cannister of knockout gas
or anaesthetic syringe—
by the time my benefactor shows up
to claim her assortment of ivory
(you cannot see them now, but
gleaming with blood and spittle,
the last three of my incisors
lie beneath my pillow like miniature
tusks— the human equivalent
of an elephant's graveyard),
the only other thing I will have left
to decide is how I'm going to spend
the purse I intend to take from her.
See? In order to press my case,
I've already prepared
the restraints of floss, the fragrance
of which now permeates the air
like an abattoir of mint —
even as, like a snake a-sniff,
my tongue probes the semi-empty
sepulchre of my jaw.
Seconds later, feigning sleep, I
hear a noise.
Cautiously, readying the garrote
of floss, I risk a peek; and just
as expected,
with coins held tight like unrung
bells, in, on gossamer feet,
tiptoes my mother.