too much bruise out of nowhere, too much my body
hurting my body. too much nightmare in the night.
too much your hands, too much I quake. at sundown,
at the edge of scorching, too much like kerosene, too
much I become a puncture for mending.
I walk uphill, frighten myself with sequins,
with shrieking—I chase after, scissors and
glisten. whenever my hunger, when it takes
me, I eat—one tablet by mouth, the hills go
shhhhh and homeward, how I rattle, split
underneath—a cutlet soaking for the butcher