I am a
Quivering bag of bones,
Shaking in the melody of iniquity.

My tongue a rattle,
Skin twisting as a washrag being rung I
Writhe as a newly hatched fledgling of naked body,
Thrashing in the sun.

Hot, with chalices for hands, I
Hope to catch the rains before I am
Devoured by the night, rising up
With bellowing.

Things rupture
In my eye; ghosts that bend as stalks of wheat
Under a gust of wind. I lay where
Beasts and devils have lied, and eat
From the palm of a dragon, and so shed my skin.

The waters
Are heavy, and are thus
Released and let in.

How I sear under the breath,
Steaming as red metal. I boil and blister
And toss my head down and
Cry.

I hear the echo of my father,

“There are many ways to die.”