agency

it’s not voluntary,
the salve dissolves too
quickly
soaks in the blood stained napkin.
to be pressed in a book.
to remember.
leaves lose color in spite
of trying to keep them. then
become flat colors of resentment.

i want to mold and mulch,
open my mouth and wait
for beetles to scent
the mouth stays wet
and where I was hit
bruises plume to surface
under command of spreading foliage
an exhaling end
of the corporeal
season.

your flesh
a pillow for my pressed thumb.
your mouth
my salve that i keep wet.

every word an anchor
thrown out in iron links
slit by my teeth.

the world recoils
so the sounds don’t make sense
and never hit bottom.



it’s not voluntary.