BY JENNIFER THOMPSON
There is an egg in my throat.
I must not swallow.
Is it a snake, a bird, slick yolk
The squatters in my stomach
clamor for scraps. I am
starving them out.
I feel the Devil's cloven hoof planted
between my shoulder blades
searing skin, buckling muscle.
In my sleep, my hands and head
have been sliced away and sewn back.
I flex my fingers, blink, smirk,
feel only phantom limbs, carnal lack.