Who else but me could scrimshaw
trapeze artists into this marrow,
wire trampolines to these pupils:
implant plasticity like
from the gall of ritual
bulls or a sterilized god
complex? I’ll sacrifice
my ovary eyes to a violent cherries
jubilee, vision jiggling in warring
pores as eggs poached with ivory.
This maternity is to carry
triplets of bullets. I’m out
to crystallize into artillery,
no yolk left to pave red
runny reins to my aorta.
I’m out of kerosene and love:
that’s juicy, raw, rare. Inherit
the soldiers. Prepare the stove.