as we peruse aisle after aisle of
make me compose
meat hooks hanging
from the edge.
Let them grow
their own meat.
Birth their own
Recombinant system. There are
good crimes. At least we thought
there were, but then
my so-called partner starts
eating them before they’re ready.
It feels like every time I eat
it pulps out immediately,
it explodes itself inside me
instead of growing all the way.
I’m starting to hate my body.
The only way I can control it is if I starve,
stop planting, stop hanging
my art on my own hooked walls.
Maybe hating the hooks
is a better approach. Then I can keep
my body in the hidden
nook, but who
will I give my torn down hooks to
not to mention my broken down body?
Should I keep them all for myself,
split one more rib and bury it
in the dirt, find out what might grow?
Should I offer it to myself,
the bloody heap before
me a surprising deifying of me?
I am tired of doing all the work
myself. A long time ago I thought a lover
was real, but it was
just another corn husk doll
with blood sewn into
one socket, with faux boldness
steering the rocket.
No wonder it keeps bursting into tears.