I too am gathering the vulgarity
      of botany, the eye and its nuclei for mischief.

Of Man, redacted I came, am coming,
      fasting, starving carved

myself a selfish idol, its shell unsuitable. I, twice
      discarded, arrived thornside, and soon outgrew

his reptilian sheen. A fine specimen. Let me have it.
      Something inviolate; splayed in bird-lime,

legs an exposed anemone, against jailbait August,
      its X-ray sky. This light a Gorgon-slick, polygamous

doom. And God again calling much too late, who
      aches to stick an ache in my unmentionable.

His Primal Plant remains elusive—
      Wildfire and pathogen, blood-knot of human

fleshed there in His beard. How I am hot for it.
      Call me murderess, a glowing engine

timed to blow. Watch it go with unjealousy, shadow.
      Let me have it. This maidenhead-primeval

schemes what ovule of cruel invention;
      the Venus-trap, the menses.

And how many ways to announce this guilt: whore’s nest
      of ague, supernova, wild stigmata.

Womb. I boast a vogue sacrosanctum. Engorging
      shored pornographies, the cells’ unruly

strain, rogue empire multiplying for a thousand virile
      thousand years; my wings pinned wide

in parthenogenesis, such miraculous display.

Originally printed in Safiya Sinclair’s book, Cannibal.