Frankly, When Asked About the Autonomy of My Body, I Consider My Inner Assassin,

as inside me is a black-eyed animal,

the umbilicus from which everything originates—

(I have no origin story)—

unburdened by conscience, like a baby,



the umbilicus from which everything originates.

I wonder if Jesus wants souls like the Devil does:

unburdened by conscience, like a baby,

the list of pallbearers still in a drawer somewhere.



(I betcha shapeshifters want souls like devils do:

their hinges turning,

the list of pallbearers still in a drawer somewhere,

an existential jambalaya;



their hinges turning,

a clamor of voltas or

some existential jambalaya?)

My only fear: fear of a virtuous mob—



a clamor of voltas 

shaped like a silver tongue.

My deepest fear?—a virtuous mob

of mother wit & mother woe.



Shaped like a silver tongue

I have no origin story

of mother wit & mother woe.

Inside me is a black-eyed animal.