Foster-words

This poem was conceived in the bad-dream breadline by a woman looking to trade five wooden rosary beads and a Vernors bottle-cap for agave saltines.
This poem spent its first 15 years in a silver-chrome playpen eating stale popcorn from pre-school days.
This poem smells like lanolin and goat’s milk and vulcanized welcome mats.
This poem has 18 fingers, a hyena clit, and a universal bi-hooked tail with full ionizing capabilities and no mass.
This poem wants to monkey-arm your neck and suck your nose—
This poem wants its name stuck in your throat.