I put my lips to your face
I make that puckering suckering noise
and breathe in old skin.
Your face changes colour.
Becomes pink with new complexion.

Your mother calls.
You can’t tell her about this.
Instead you tell her, ten, for coffee.

After coffee. At shopping. She remarks,
‘my daughter is so very beautiful’
The salesman nods in agreement.
She purchases a new appliance.
It matches the colour of everything;
it’s the most powerful and efficient vacuum in the world.

She is happy. She brings it home with us. Plugs it into the socket.
It sucks up everything, including the paint from the walls,
the curtains from the window and the photos from the mantlepiece.

Your mother is pleased, it’s everything the salesman said it would be.
She leaves. And then we notice,
Along with the furnishings, it has sucked us both into the black of its belly.

And so surrounded by the comforts of home we start a new life together.

You remark: ‘one day, we’ll be very happy’

However it’s so dark I can’t see your face.

But then the phone rings.

It’s your mother.

She wants to know how we’re settling in.