We are creatures of prudent stitches
stuffed to stillness: black currants,
puppet buttons, unfathomable tides.
Patchworks of fluid and dark hands.
We slosh. We are full. We are poised.
I spread my neighbor’s flustered aorta
on my nutty morning toast, buttering
quiet guts with envy and wholesome
hearts. We became artists in this way.
Cannibals. Rancid sculptures. Poised.
Later, I’ll squelch my own shadow
like jelly bean crawlers. Exquisite
exoskeletons sprout crooked light
in berries from neighboring teeth.
Their jaws are set. We are poised.
Our hands lie still.
Guts. Jaws. Still.
We are poised.