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.