girls gone vile
gone ballerine ribbon splintered on the block already bruised body
in sweet crossing
time to cut in cut in with my dollface
lashes spoiled-heroine black
my mouth owed at least belle du jour
trinket me my wryneck stalky limbs hair in constant pirouette
I can’t let the brat down
the brat ligatures the brat pasternacks
the brat formerly known
as brickish house for my stray fingers
the brat spitdried so nothing falls out kind of like hunger
just keep biting down
down on the plank even with your pinky toe
The butcher breaks me open,
says bones are sticks for flesh.
Early I knew. I broke my sister’s arm
the night of her third birthday. Happy
I was in my oblivion, so cushioned
in my sleep. That’s when he wrestled me
out to the barn five miles west.
The neon stamped my eyes.
There: bleating lamb. There:
hands lassoed in the leather.
There: he hatchets ribs until the meat
is the size of my fist. Perfect portion.
He keeps at it. I keep at it.
My country says abundance
in its red drenched coat
and I grab my share and some
I consume and some I spit
to frankenstein the animal
for a feast. And how I’ve grown
so nervy and ugly and full.