the thing inside i carried, that i housed,
swells outward, as if ungrateful--as if incapable
of more than feeding and growing--
but it is i who have fed it--i who have housed it--
it has dined in my hell.
perhaps i have let it become me--perhaps
the thing i swallowed has swallowed back--
perhaps i am no longer more
than a blind white mouth
and a rapturous white tongue
tasting, tasting everything--tasting
without feeling.
in the mirror i see black-silk head
and green eyes--they obsess me--
nothing like me
who is, inside,
only flavor.
No comments:
Post a Comment