in the times a
doctors office
makes you stand still
feet on fire
you can daven in line
and pick
whatever scabs you want to
and make a nest of the
corner eugenics backs you into
honey,
clot
like you're
the slow sip
in the bottom of
a cup that wasn't hot enough
see,
this
fear
space
is under you,
is -- i swear-- just an inch or two
of air
and
nothing
your clubbed
holy
holy
holy
can't
part.
when you're the last
to cross a sea that doubts you
you'll feel
the same saline
you'll feel
you're made of it
and yes,
you're
seas of questions
and yes,
fear swims there
but
mostly
you are
made
yes
of hashem
and
each of light were
each bashert with
and
your body
and not
too
and not
but
and not
only.
there are no commandments
only visions
in my book
ive
been flooded by whole futures
been rolled across rampless
ocean floors
but no matter how
i tell it, your
and yes
finds you
a prophet
and though
it
is
salty
and scared,
it
always
carries you there.
the visual to this poem, which contains a graphic video of me lighting my excised breast tissue on fire and throwing it in a bog, as well as other poetry, can be found here