I carry the cross down the hill / while my brothers cackle and scourge / me until I tire
She is having contractions, / and the Kingdom of Heaven / is splitting apart her legs.
Don’t pray to be healed, or look for evidence / of “some other world.” / There is no other.
what she’ll do—one bottle of hoarded pills / and one of good bourbon, a spot she’s picked / at the base of a hickory
God: / Which is my best invention— / swallowing or vomiting? / I still can’t decide.
windows throb like human organs: blue heart, / maroon brain, gold spleen
