Masturbating, quiet in the shower, you think of
your childhood? It’s the curtain.The pastor behind it watched
you change into your swimsuit at your credobaptism.
Your fingertips quivered in,& came out, catechism.
Morai twisted strings. Floodgates cracked like slits of a pie.
If born weak, Spartan newborns are chucked into a ravine.
Flying by, seams ripped inside.Too small for the tip
of a forefinger, the aperture sieved a braver sea, onward
toward salt pillars & Hadeswith cascading feathers &
the swan’s neck between your legs. You are your own broken heel &
you are your own angel of death.