This morning there was blood on the pavement.

There are men with teeth where hand should be.
With gapping wound and rot, as humiliation.
Ones who will turn pelvic bones into a shrine,
a good enough trophy.  They will collect fingernails
like seashells from place called body. They will pry
open. They will bite and ****. A bruise for a mouth.
They will turn place called home into place called body.

This morning there were birds in the front yard pulling tiny rubber bands from the Earth.

They will turn knees into figures meant for bending.
Do not bend. With bravery a wronged honor. A
never deserved. An always hurt. Crawl backwards,
make birth a survival tactic. A promise. You will
shed skin off this skeleton. You will be a tremulous

placed called body.
You will not bend.