floating and leaving no trace
these parasites and guardian angels
swarm in my guts, hum in my skull
a force to be reckoned with
small green army men cast in my own image
dig wells, harvest springs
bound in chains light enough to work in
there are keys but not all bonds are
slavery
the outside should be hard
the inside soft
like a marshmallow wrapped
in a tortoise shell
once used to foretell the future
something fatty
something greasy
something brittle that will
shatter between my molars
i long to grind it up
powder the marrow
against my teeth
saving the last part
the blood part
for the end
when the eighth month comes
there will be hunger
——
Words and Feathers 