My name is a mouthful of razor blades.
Of seed and stamen.
She’s a plurality, a glissando pierced by the tips of my notched tongue.
A burst of static, the ecstatic sigh of a galaxy of angels taking their places on the cross.
The world ripples, leafs and greens between layers of rut and rot where words worm and root.
The cracks are beginning to spread.
Falling into one, falling out of the other.
Our bulbs burst with bright light.
I can’t name names, but I want to call everything something else.
Flame or blight.
That’s not snow gathering outside the frame.
The dark spots aren’t corners.
That’s a song not a scream.
Our bones work beneath our skin.
The knotted cords tighten.
We’re barely in control.
We bloom and
bleed at the edges.