over aluminum cribs
called you mother
but you were too busy giving birth
I was unfit, an exhibit, a nameplate
soaking your wrist in vinegar
this is what poems are
a jawed face prophecy
blessing the flaws of a crucifix
wearing genitals in abstract
like useless arms
above an air
where deaths smell so correct
Ants encourage my fall
I’m ripe, a steady zigzag
A glory that touches me
And leaves me alone
Clasped
A punctuation
Altered to suit
Much of myself
With the same hand
The tonality of a pen
aromatic
confusing
a virgin, foot thicked
disrupting my willingness to sleep
rising a mouth to holy
i am
~
addicted
to the coolness of your throat
~
A probable stroke
