is like a bayonet
slowly thrust through our centers.
After the spear is dampened by blood—
in a Christly homage, a cold hunger rises
up like steam from cement after it rains
down hard on the hottest day in Summer.
The bayonet humps our helpless bodies—
like a dog making love to a knot in the fence;
Swiss cheesing our flesh, so the love can rush out
and the ants climb in. The ants have been lined up
for centuries, waiting on our twisted arteries
stretched out like ant farms in a window sill,
on a sunny day in February.