Butchered
dried out
I’m self-dissected
in pieces
my chest is open
shrapnel
quicklime
peat smoke
and raindrops
fill my heart
too much repetition
I’m not from here but
I know
what the buzzard wants
he smells the half-eaten plum
in my stomach
he’ll take the rest
of that fruit’s flesh
swallow it all
then leave me alone
for a while
plenty of time to worry about
what I’ll lose next