He mended his side, his Christ wound
sharply, his face distorted by pain—
the needle a thick catharsis,
the catgut a chanteuse in loose stitches.
He dug out his liver first
to make a nest for his love
who made herself small
enough to crawl in.
Who made herself animal
enough to luxuriate in
the wet perfumes of carnage.
-M.
M. N. Ashley 