we’ve always been after our tongue.
eager for the adrenaline rush of freak.
cease her–the hare leaping out from the mutt
wolf chasing
like a girl’s dance in motion.
rhythm flow. performing.
we’ve always dreamed we were deities, applauds of
our names in vain, hands in costume; sweating.
we were the ones bowing.
the envied vigor directs
the stage floor growing cherry seed and brute psyche.
impulse–or alchemy
instructed the spin, canine teeth flashing a

red light.
hold that tongue. swallow your spit. remember
to smile. we forget
it’s all routine, how the propped platter
possessing a pig’s head opens its mouth,
instinct biting into Eve’s apple.
force-fed. all of us
are asked how our prey tastes. victory is sweet, did you know? 

i can’t personify what drips from my lips in warm,
metallic vein but i feel
she’s always been there.