Prophecy is a terrible illness with no cure. I sit on the train and want to slash open my belly, tear it all out.
You can unburden me.
I’ll do the dishes.
How pretty your teeth will be when they are red with my blood.
I foresee my death in your palms.
I taste new life beneath the firs.
Every velvet rope looks like an umbilical cord, looks like a noose.
Carve me up. Take the eucharist.
Drain my ichor.
Flay me. Disembowel me.
Lay my skin over yours.
My youth is your salvation.
You will bear that which I cannot.
Are you hungry yet?
I know that look.