Mrs. Claus

This weight deceives like ghosts.
Shit—like politics. 
I sleep, wrapped in cream chiffon pulled taut 
against my ballooning torso. 
I wake, gasping at diaphanous hands wringing 
my neck,
stiff, after resting on layers 
of desert sage micro-hairs
and poorly constructed nests 
in my dream states devoid of recourse.

My skin feels foreign— 
sticky and sad.
It possesses the gleam of linoleum
and I shout at it until it burns the deep red 
of the Armenian rugs I lay on in lieu of 
lifting my iron legs. Useless.

Useless to love me with all your pretended might
and severe kisses.
I will 
              always 
drift off to another packed theater;
another liquor-fueled passion, after
with the next passing moon.