the seeping carcass uncoagulated leaks a guilty mother’s tears
she supervised the wound and dressed it with alchemists dreams
non believing a golden retrieving
in the light of death it looks like lead.
tearing the wound, a universe of indignity,
a sharp phallus years in the reckoning
intestines twisting in the father’s fist
the loving hand shakes with indignant malignance,
kisses on the crown for the slave to his denial and love
in the light of death it looks like hate.
ravished by rage, smashed against a wall, place your delicate baby back into its crib
whisper into its ear,
i fed you,
but you were never anything to me
i played with you,
in more ways than you will ever know
i clothed you after i took them off,
and look, the cloth is made of gold.