Strips of her skin on a ceiling fan,
Red, her thick fleshy white,
I make charts of its breath and the way it moves,
Tack them upon her skin and the walls, quake.
Ritalin fall and the birds give birth to tin cans.
Shudder, its eyes and house are closed now.
Fifty seconds, twenty-two pins and a brethren of snakes.
Three scissors, an orange, and pliers.
Its breath swims in our arteries like a three-legged dog
and we pass our fingers through its throat
and pretend it is speaking, moving inside our yellow.
Dopamine summer. She put them into a car
and siphoned gasoline, their breath and bodies
made grids against our wrists.
It leaves notes under your skin in flaps
and we eat you in shreds,
moving your gums and teeth and tongue
through our rune mouths
and we call it a casting or maybe a cauldron,
when we slit our fingers into hides and blackbirds
and smear them into letters against the vacancies
she drills into ports inside her arms and belly
and now we're making etchings of its spit
against our mouths and legs and stone
and its breath reminds us of narwhal: their puncture
that tastes like iron ore and bloody lips.