And blush for a cheek of stone.
Blush for the lips sewn tight with thread, no speech for the dead
You’ve got the razor. You can make each suture snap.
And watch the mouth
bloom up with foam,
as if he’d drowned himself in soap—
You lift the neck and let the head drop back.
The mouth yawns wide its prize—
The larval joy.
Hot in their gorge on the stew of balms,
a moist exhale—
as if there were a last breath, a taunt
into your inner ear, Good Dog, you dig your hands in,
of the School of Flesh,
I will learn it.
I will bite the tongue from the corpse.