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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s