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Ribs plucked from a cage
like fingers from jointless seams,
and a stripped palm blossoms.

White marrowed iron,
a field pronged belly with stakes of bone,
find a frozen wind and pregnant breath there,
in hive lungs.

Nests, swollen of shattered wasps,
they're fencing back broken glass,
I can hear their fire-
It is perfect.

May I open your gates?
So that I might fashion rungs from your breast
and climb fractured steps
to the beating life in your chest,
to tear it from those hands of a broken mother,
and spit in her face as she seeks comfort,
for I have taken her son.

These wounds,
mended by our death...
It is something I pray for.

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