I could put these time bombs
In a God-jar, let some higher angel
Cigarettes. Music. Weeds. Grace.
The men I love,
born with the mercy card
up their sleeve.
Impossible to make a voodoo doll of.
I look at the dark, soft hair reaching
below the ears, their Jesus complex,
how it’s necessary for them
to have at least 7 followers.
Each one an only son
I cannot confess to,
how I wake from a calm sleep
to find my body
stuffed with down,
hops and grapevines,
nettle a choker around my throat.
A wild apple stuffed in my mouth.