Let it not be the teacups; Oh, let it be the shingles or the chiminey, Or something unseen. Linens and drapes. Handkerchiefs, glasses, Little quiches, and wine, wine, wine. After dinner there are Blood and butter stains on my white, white dress. Glass swans with pearly-button eyes. I have to touch them over and over. But when their backs are turned toward the garlands I have to scrub the rust off my veil! While their hearts are full, I've got blood blisters. I hide them in pretty white shoes, glass shoes, Ribbons, bows, anything. The pats of butter swell like rivers in their saucers. The smell of sour cake is in our mouths, Mingled with grief and sweat. There are wounds here and there like sunspots, Like dark wine. But what I want are scabs. I want something good to pick and scratch at, To keep me occupied for life. What is my prize? I am owed. I am owed A hand, to mold, to make, to sell, to slip, Ringlet within ring. It will be the hand that blots the blood.