My Lent

Betrayed by the promises of flesh
My own thoughts are the garrote
Wrapped tightly against skin–
of naked neck and folded fingers
Angry blood on bitter hands

I give in at times
To nimble, narcotic blue
I desire even
Swine-gnawed pearls
Anything at all, fallen
From slobbering snouts, sodden


I have two hands to sever
Lest I steal anything from you
Cut my lying tongue from my mouth
So I speak no other Name
Pluck lustful eyes from their place of rest
I will only look on you in newly blind fear
If I lost my legs at the knee
(Amputation is a sharp, decisive mercy)
I could not help but kneel
But you know better
As if the darkness were fully contained
In these twelve baskets of an ancient meal
How do I cut off or pluck out my own dark heart?



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