Meditations Of The Gun
I dislike the human gaze. I see through
man so thoroughly he dies.
I cough up rubies he cannot pick.
He understands no phrase of mine
though he feigns it, though I whimper
or whine. For this, the cockatoos decry him.
He runs his hands along my spine like a dog’s.
He loves my sheen, my hot mouth,
the smoke of my proclamations.
Show me the moon, I whisper in his dreams,
Let me see what a constellation is.
I love best the distant, ineffable thing
that I cannot ruin. My longing
should not surprise, see how I am held,
swung. Everything born is cursed
with purpose. I eschew my own destiny.
Take me back to the ore I was culled
from. Better the jagged dark’s embrace
than the waning lights of eyes. Still,
I cannot deny enjoying the insides
of a mouth, its constellation of teeth,
that drooping uvula, my pink moon,
I take what I am given.