Snakes won't cross a braided rope, so I take the leads up from around my bed. I remember her face- bright and smiling beside mine white as if she had just shed a skin and the dunes grow now over the urchin barrens, a desert in the sea. I can peer beneath the 3rd lid my heart claws at my throat, allergy tight from the judging shade of green. The 3rd lid opens over the Taklamakan, Tibetan horns sound so old - ancient vagus nerve endings in my throat but my heart claws them away. Snakes won't cross a braided rope but her eyes are green and we lay a cottonmouth skin across her womb. All I see are diamonds on the ring fingers.
I see a boy underneath the bin He prays desperately to a deaf god Looming over I can smell his despair Rocking back and forth in holy existence Your prayer won’t save you now little duckling Say I to the rat But on he chants, on and on to gods and clouds and demons He names them all, one by one endlessly chanting his desperate canon Where are your gods now? Do they serve you a merciful end? I ask as I slash his throat.