I am Christ’s overwrought Y chromosome
And Yggdrasil’s sickly branch,
The ouroboros teller.
I am the Ash.
I am Dogwood
Tomorrow I’ll shoe four promised mares
With char-blessed spits for nails
And sieve civilization away
Through the web of men.
No weapon but a
Mouth full of spit.
Things don’t escape.
So spare me your patter nosters.
For my brain, you’ve minced the tongues
Of every prayer and prophet you laid hands on.
Tallies on the walls of my mind
Number the dates.
I remain yours
In the telling,
This prehensile aping.
So silence your pipes
As I Black up
In ink: a vestment and hymnal
And the one spice I’ll be able to identify
Right up until you cut out my tongue.
Pardon the slippage.