They’re Cutting the Ovaries Out of Deer and Laying Them Out on Yoga Mats When They’re Done
precious gut dear dough i have eggs it’s true
i can make a daughter can proffer and bloom
if i choose i could make me whatever-fold i guess
i can catch my gut in a cup & tip it into the trash
rashly i discard with my own hands
lots of not-babies none of my offal’s named i don’t say
this to be crass i have eggs & limbs & a tongue that crawls
to the side when i’m out cold, cut up or rising
from plastic wrapped in fragiletape
or imagined broken when i imagine
death it’s face down in the mud i came from
not rubber not plated not drawn or drawn upon
not stitched by a clean savior not charcoal not sketched
not a screen to write
dear unmoving
dear prey thing
dear film still
dear ally
dear password
dear ruined ankle
dear tragic practice
dear broke-into
dear glass eye
dear proof
dear me
dear cut gut
dear body-ish
dear egg tendon
dear forced ending
dear meat
dear me
dear made-to-be
it’s true i have eggs & i am afraid
it’s true i am afraid of being cut
it’s true this makes me precious & maybe flushed
so i reach between my legs
i pull the string the deer fall out
i listen as they hit the water in the bowl & the sound
doesn’t make me feel delicate at all
i pull the lever
i hope i wreck the plumbing
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