1.
i am your blood and treasure.

split me from my gun
and rummage through the leavings.
open me like a kit bag
and spread the wealth around.
pour one hot cup
of the tears of my unborn
over me. bury landmines
in my belly unexploded
so they may burst
when you stoop over me
and marvel at my sacrifice.

an old man promised me
a sacred place then lifted me
like a candy to his mouth.

i was not made
for the old man’s dreams.
i had my own: forest, desert,
slipstream in a perfect jet. but the old man
ate my dreams like a teacake
and nourished himself, and only himself.

2.
there are places in my body now
where the crows
are no larger than a pinhead.

the vultures
can fit in a wallet.

the maggots whisper to me that i am
remarkable.

3.
under my head
is a stone that wants to be a pillow
but doesn’t know how to be soft
and the face i used to have
slides off me like a yolk
and onto the dark ground.

4.
in last night’s dream
there was a bullet that spoke
prophecy. it said i would die
unaided.

the old man is still hungry.
i was not a full meal
for him, i was just
the first course.

if i had a brother i would tell him
all men are brothers, all women are sisters,
all the hunger in the world
won’t make you a meal unless you offer yourself up.
before dinner, sing the old song:

the bombs i have known
i wouldn’t let tie my shoes.

i am your blood and measure.

i am the scraps
left from the hunger of old men.