i.
pluck the aching out of my ribs — one by one
as though they were teeth that had sunk —
latched themselves onto these bones,
until it is but a pile of bite marks,
a pile of mildewed flowers —
festering like sins, like punishment.
pluck each bruising bone,
some things belong to my chest.
some, to firelight.

ii.
pluck a rib,
make the sweetest, purest, brand new woman —
all lace girdle and nectarine lips,
stepping out of the outskirts of my skin
as i watch from the other side of an exit wound — the inner side.
maybe in another life, that can be me.

thou shalt not covet.

i close the window.
i zip the skin.

iii.
tonight, i kneel in a confessional —
screaming away all banal sorrows,
screaming away all banal sins.

pull the aching out of my ribs —
it's in its rawest just before the dawn.
pull the aching out of my ribs.

a corrupted sight
for awakened flowers. ringing church bells. hummingbirds.
oh, a corrupted sight.
and mornings will hear its aftermath.