You split me, a slow stacking of walls
In my middle. A black turtleneck
Shields the flannel, the form of force,
Lady Lumberjack. Your axe is Mitotic,
Wedging my softness in two. I do not
Wear duplicity well – your half tugged
Away more mass.
An unborn child is a needle,
Lubricated to jab a channel into me.
Brother, brother, you have knocked
Me up too with a mind avuncular.
A needle is a rake, scratching away
Another section of the pink of
Thinking.
What
a laudable reduction, the stuffing
Of
skulls ripped to strangers. A house of
Tusks.
I am three brains. I am three eyes.
I
am three lenses, not caked nearly enough
To
blind me – which is still wholly my own?
The
crinkled, shriveled one, leaking
Its cytoplasm.
Its cytoplasm.
© 2015 BENJAMIN SMITH
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