If I told you I required the world in all its hard violence, would that make me easier to know?

Love, I am leaning into the thrust of things. Not your hips, not the grind of the coffee maker.

Rather say I need the static, the screel of the wild chick hungering to rinse me out by dawn. I

Hunt industries in the rise and fall of farm equipment my grandparents used before I was born. I understand myself through every hand raised against me and every hand I have ever raised. 

You know that if I see a lingering affection, I press my nose into the ground of it as any dog,

Whuffing til I get to the origin point of the fist that winds it up taut, glowing for its release. I

Go between the aisles of good girls’ knees and abortion clinics, gathering dropped stitches. I 

Press them into my mouth. I press you into my mouth. I wander the world with a gag reflex 

Much too voluptuous for everything I want to consume. When they kill kittens, I watch. I see.