If you should find me with my head in the oven,
and my other head hanging from the broom closet,
and my torso flattened under tire,
and my hands in a bowl of oranges,
and my neck breaking for a man I barely know,
if you should find me like this,
please let me know what waits on the other side.
Please give my words a violent bath
in ammonia and make my skin
as fresh as a mothers’ skin should be.
Please wrap me up in plastic and place
me under heating lamps
and interrogate me before I leave.
I want my guts to spew outside of myself and
my skeleton to dry out in fresh air.
The air has become so stale in here,
I am as dry as an old loaf of bread.
I am collecting spores of green mold and nobody
knows about it
and all of the living organisms go around and around
the women with their perky breasts and the
men with their swollen cocks
and all of their concern with pro-creation,
while I sit here and rot in
the truth of who I am.