Off-Gassing by Devon Balwit

You want to steal my own face in the mirror,
leave me looking at low IQ crazy [my name],
reach your hand down my throat for my voice,
until I remain a dumb startle, a baffled bellow;
You want my knees apart or all of me bent
over a barrel, easy access, me, a pushover;
A dirty bomb, you want me to unravel,
intestines unthreading through your blast hole
and then sepsis, a slow death, a crying out;
If I won’t dance to pulled strings, you want me
in my father’s house, away from the forum,
corralled in the domestic, in a sphere that spills
snow when you tap it; You want me ever-smaller,
the kind of thing you could flick off a sleeve,
and be sure would never again trouble you.
Intending to be a survivor, I probe your vent
and note your noxious. I take my work seriously.


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