COCKATRICE

COCKATRICE

cobble gazed

stare orbs,

roam, full,

gut my

weasel skin.

naɪf

naɪf

I am my

own

blade, dulled

to a dangerous

point.

“Every word that you speak / Is a word they have made.”

“Every word that you speak / Is a word they have made.”

devour my tongue, sow
the rich black asphalt



with my spongy teeth.
we are not taut enough



yet

string my sinews,

they are yours to make

sing, to make mockery

of my feeble throat.