Lucy

Make it snakes. Whom were always deceiver and forfeit.
As I am always derivative. A sap. The sticky. Stain
of his leak. What’s crusted the slip. What makes it so
hard/beat fast/feel sad. If a matter of origin, I’ll throw up
a cosmos. Twinkle-lights pock my smile with zodiac.
Make it the first time I let him, his O-face smeared
into an Edvard taffy theatre mask. His joy was terrible.
Its in-and-in-and-in, whorls of wet, agitated sand
that could not bear my weight. Make it a heavy sound.
Make it roach scuttle in cathedrals. Make it rainstick’s
thirsty lie, faux firelight, and the gas turned up. Make it
black-out sex forgetting she had a name. I get ahead
running towards a dangling carrot’s veiny slow dissolve.
I move my lips but only his sounds come out. I motor
hind hooves and the cyclone dust kicked up vanishes me.
About my head, a red halo dilates. She is not my own
god, I am my own. My god, make it snakes. Make one so
onyx a glossing, so diamond a tip, my every shiver’s incision.