Cake-sound. Lifted lip. The white detergent froth encloses brown petal-meat rot in the drain. In the dark cinema there was the sound of cake in my mother’s mouth. I am looking at my gums in the mirror. Buttery pink, shiny wet like whale skin. They bleed red and I spit brown. The fox is eating sugary mcdonalds meat in the night pinkly, darkly. In the sink the soap-slop, white.