What are the symptoms of wanting
outlets to melt in your hand, stick
to your cheeks with cheap licorice?
I console my batteries like dying
crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,
the mic in its thighs to gain power.
Pure water isn’t very conductive.
I dare you to drink from wetlands
that don’t transform your feet to rubber.
The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.
Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty
on the matter if it was Advil or candy.
It’s not about healing anymore
but liquefying your spine into
rivers brimmed with biomass.
is a coppery heat
when each carnival
syllable festers in
Burrows. Pops up
its polyester tents
like scarlet groundhogs
with the seasons:
animal lungs balloon
in their pockets, emptied
of iron. How rich
is your soil—
that boils its few coins
to the autumnal stutters
of clanking hearts
and gunmetal tongues.
Spice is seined from frowning earth
into loaves of flavor and celebration.
is grated from dermis.
Sap has hardened. Cinnamon bark
yips wakened morsels down edges
of my geometric shadows:
rot, you unshapely ellipses.
Our roots expanded. They chipped
the fruit bowls. Medicate on ginger.
Our processes are wintry.
We’ll ripen out of season.
We solidify. Crumble. They tasted
so stale. We peel so softly. Shame.
How much do you think you can purify
with flagellation and broilers?
Carry through night
with a wintry guise.
Flick the guilt off
your meaty spine
with whips wet in the shrieks of lambs.
First is birth—inherently dirty.
Prepare those salient ribs for divine maws
with your favorite barbecue
more sucrose than home.
I could diagnose your teeth as snowshoes.
I’ve never seen a blizzard bleed before,
but it’s thumped against my own skull
and forged tetanus
from cranial musk.
Spotted white, I know your throat is infected.
I’d call it water on the brain, but it’s simply
the Spring melt. The amygdala’s expansion,
Darwin’s way of summoning those hounds
through anything holy.
Mammalia is chronic.
The treatment is to speak
as lightly as the shedding.