pick up and slip tonight;
break the yellow tape stretched thrice across
the broken panes of both eyes,
throttle a sleeping raven in each hand
and hang them ’round my limp neck,
then cede the rest. Fierce joy
ties mirrors to my heels.
Everything else is here, mad bad distilled
as three minutes of sound in a bottle,
my own true name invisibly inked on the label
and all the grey comforts of home.
Concentricity, for one: circles,
spirals, rings around the rosie.
Vibration enough to shake my tumid lungs free
from the rigor clutch of every breath
I ever held. Blunt echo to hammer the obvious
midway between my heart and spleen.
Change to amputate my legs,
grow them back, and steal them again.
Repetition reoccurrence repetitious-
ness; can’t quite recall why.
Gunmetal and storm clouds for brewing tea,
rhythm as a wicked pulse.
Steel wool to wash with.
Razor wire for close shaves.
Beauty enough to gorge on; truth enough to starve
anyway, tapeworm style.
And safety, save just enough you to choke on:
I’m careful, though, and willing to risk it.
Don’t bother to forward my mail.
Tomorrow you’ll know where to drink me.
(first appeared in issue 3 of Liebamour)