Grief-cotton funnels my synapses forked
as the Khartoum split into live sawflies,
primitive woodwasp weapons
gnaw neocortex matter into an
ire-imitative imago-icebox—
Injured autobiography;
barometer-tabulation of shock-
sin—I was born with a murder ballad
wasp-stung sharp in my esophagus;
I sing as I butcher prayers with my shame,
conjure leviathan with my drone-dirge.
I obliterate my pulsed breath often
as I berate it—My assassin-brain
knows it is a predator—My body
knows it must eat my saw-abdomen from
within: I consume my crime so I can
impel leviathan to pursue it
past my gut into my spine—A wandering Sin-
eater: I am the coffin and I am
its God, monster and master of my Sea—
Its saw-swaying sacrament is salty on my tongue.