by Elizabeth Jones


I came from Nine I will spell it because words

Haunt, and numbers keep track.

I’ve got Nine all over me, from my ankles to my eyes.

Nine is weary in her waiting for ten.

By Nine they begin to feel the uniform of Twelve.

December babies, Mother has lots

My mother has lots.

For each chair, lampshade, and


there is a wage.

For each bag, recite and


there is A thought.

For each restless leg there is a forest.

For all curses unbroken are oceans of Obscenity.


For all children there is a Mother, unless the Mother has a restless leg, or too many lampshades and wages to pay. Wallets full of receipts, the Castle is made of boxes, protected by thoughts

Unaccounted, sliding.

Sliding into obscenity.

All children have a mother some are just born with the taste of sea salt in their mouths.