The father died and then the mother died.
And you were so addicted
to not feeling them, you told no one about the clamp
inside —
around the vena cava. Dam against the blood's
trash —
But I've got you now. Trussed at the waist
in a wooden chair,
odor of spice and
oranges, clove-pierced, incandescent stores
to light our lab's decor —
Here. I saved this just for you.
Beetle-cleaned and sharp at the tip, the finger that shook
in your set face
from the hand that smoothed your hair —
Make a fist.
Wrap the tube round your fleshy arm, pull the black rubber
tight —
will we finally
see the sludge of their accumulated mouths, ah, you've said,
how they poisoned me...
Pierce in
with your mother's finger-bone, taste the slow up-well —
Sweet.
Sweet. Surge ambrosial and clear —
A honey, an ichor.
From those who waited long
in your veins.