The Suckling

My mother's eyes reflect redly in her sockets under these lights
Her fishnet stockings cinch up her legs; hold them together.
Cigarette smoke frames and punctuates her words. The harsh fact is:
This, sitting here, is my immortal impression of feminity.
She is stretched and her bones seem loose, her cherry-red mouth
Is so cheap. Under these lights, she is fetishisized raw.
She is Aphrodite plucked from Mount Olympus,
Rotting among fallen forbidden fruit, the cores bitter.