Self Portrait of an Open Wound
I am confused and drinking
from bowls of soapy water,
pink and swollen as a fetus.
Unable to remember
how I’ve arrived, at night
I get drunk, vodka
on the shore, searching
for paradise in any crevice
I can find, even the black
and coiled. Someone
is playing the violin
inside of me, its wooden
frame shaped like the body
of an arachnid,
each high-pitched sound
biting me; how romantic
it is to have a lover peering
into my pit, eyes hanging
like two slices of wet fruit,
witnessing the strike.
