While I have yet to pick my weapon of

ultimate dispatch—

the looped string attached to the doorknob;

the pliers;

the cannister of knockout gas

or anaesthetic syringe—

by the time my benefactor shows up

to claim her assortment of ivory

(you cannot see them now, but

gleaming with blood and spittle,

the last three of my incisors

lie beneath my pillow like miniature

tusks— the human equivalent

of an elephant's graveyard),

the only other thing I will have left

to decide is how I'm going to spend

the purse I intend to take from her.

See? In order to press my case,

I've already prepared

the restraints of floss, the fragrance

of which now permeates the air

like an abattoir of mint —

even as, like a snake a-sniff,

my tongue probes the semi-empty

sepulchre of my jaw.

Seconds later, feigning sleep, I

hear a noise.

Cautiously, readying the garrote

of floss, I risk a peek; and just

as expected,

with coins held tight like unrung

bells, in, on gossamer feet,

tiptoes my mother.