Playing the Dozens with Andre Breton

Your wife has a head of fire?
My wife is a house on fire. Uh huh, uh huh.
My wife has the tail of a leopard, the teeth
of a tiger. My wife has the mouth of a town,
a bouquet of stars races after her.
Your wife tiptoes like a mouse on the white earth?
My wife bites the white earth.

My wife writes on the sky with crayons,
indigo, magenta.
My wife has time to paint gold stripes.
Your wife has shoulders of champagne?
My wife drinks spring waterfalls.
Nisqually, Skykomish, she's been there.

My wife throws the sheep that put you to sleep.
She winds the clocks in Montreal and Tokyo.
She keeps the night running.

Your wife has a sex like seaweed and old-fashioned candies?
Old fashioned that's right.
My wife's sex--bow shock, stellar wind slamming in.

My wife has breasts like the big dipper.
Her belly rolls boulders.
She's got a backside that balances birthday candles.
Even yours Breton, even yours.

My wife is the trombone player,
last chair to the left,
the one your wife wants.

Deborah Bacharach
Blue Mesa Review, Summer 2012