In vain, I wore this flesh as a mistake, bred so
            proper by this derelict age. Oh, despise do I

the decorum of being crossed: be meek, forgive 
            easily–what of the girls whose feet are webbed 

as geese, who mark in filthy toes their territory?
            Does my vengeance possess the allure of belly

dance, shall I be the first to teach you that to be
            agreeable is a death sentence? If you ache for

doors, find a spread of guillotines instead. If you
            long for a portal, savor the vinegar in your bread.

I confess I am sick of it: how those who swing a
            blade so recklessly are the last to taste it and how

yours still burrows as sorrow in my throat. Akin
            to God, my voice must transmute through livery;

through the study of disparate things. Nettle, so
            sly in its sting, rubs you red as I do in my lapping.

Place the burn to your ear like a shell from the sea:
            inside, a forked tongue cry: come get me, I’m ready.