Teeth Full of Bees
Behind his knuckles he hides
two sacks of pilgrim discord,
black & furrowed. I am at his feet,
gaping at the opening in my chest.
This brand marshals up my arms,
snakes around my throat, pillboxes
my mouth, iron & razor. His good
eye seeps into my bad one. This isn’t
the first time this has happened. I convene
with the concrete gods with every jumped-up
blackguard. He doesn’t know the alley
is on my side, doesn’t feel the spiders
I can send right through his forehead.
From this angle, the cardboard boxes stacked
up against the wall look wilty & weak. From
this angle, weakness is all I see.
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