"My Brother, My Wound."
He was calling in the bulls from the street.
They came like a dark river, a blur of chest and hoof,
everything moving under splinter,
hooked their horns through the walls.
Light hummed the holes like yellow jackets.
My mouth was a nest torn empty.
Then he was at the table, then in the pig's jaws.
He was not hungry.
He was stopped.
He was bad apple.
He was choking.
So I punched my fists against his stomach.
Mars flew out and broke open or bloomed.
How many small red eyes shut in that husk.
He said, look, look.
And I did.
He said, lift up your shirt.
And I did.
He slid his fork beneath my ribs.
Yes, he sang a Jesus' side wound.
It wouldn't stop bleeding.
He reached inside and turned on the lamp.
I never knew I was also a lamp until the light fell out of me,
dripped down my thigh, flew up in me, cut in my throat
like a canary.
Canaries really means dogs, he said.
He put on his shoes.
You started this with your mouth, he pointed.
Where are you going?
I asked.
To ride the Ferris Wheel, he answered, and climbed inside me
like a window.