He was calling in the bulls from the street.
They came like a dark river — 
a blur of chest and hoof — 
everything moving, under, splinter — hooked
their horns through the walls. Light hummed
the holes like yellow jackets. My mouth
was a nest torn empty.



Then, he was at the table.
Then, in the pig’s jaws — 
he was not hungry. He was stop.
He was bad apple. He was choking.



So I punched my fists against his stomach.
Mars flew out
and broke open or bloomed — 
how many small red eyes shut in that husk?



He said, Look. Look. And they did.



He said, Lift up your shirt. And I did.



He slid his fork beneath my ribs — Yes, he sang. A Jesus side wound.
It wouldn’t stop bleeding.
He reached inside
and turned on the lamp — 



I never knew I was also a lamp — until the light
fell out of me, dripped down my thigh, flew up in me,
caught in my throat like a canary.Canaries really means dogs, he said.



He put on his shoes.You started this with your mouth, he pointed.Where are you going? I asked.To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered,
and climbed inside me like a window.

— “My Brother My Wound,” Natalie Diaz (via commovente)

Wow.