I could put these time bombs

In a God-jar, let some higher angel

Keep them.


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,

cannot say


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.