Every word drips from my lips

Into a sieve and squeezes through

To a jumbled mess at the bottom

Of a life sized bowl of alphabet soup.

From my vantage over the quagmire

I feel like the 50 Foot Woman

With arms as long as bridges and

Legs and thighs that go on for days.

My bikini is vast and my cleavage

Is the Grand Canyon.

But still the words dribble out of my lips

And float like clouds instead

Of falling with the weight of pearls.

The crowds filling the landscape

Around my feet have no fear

Of my words crushing them

And yet they stare up

At the expanse of my sex

Hungry.