I stand in the sweet spot of the speakers,

equidistant to the slant, swaddled, crucified.

I am a pig at slaughter. The pain drips like

precum, like creosote rising to the sun.
I can feel the knives scrape, I can feel your
hand rhythmic on my chest then resting

as if ready for CPR. I cannot blame you

for my failed resuscitation. Sometimes

it’s about purity in spite of devotion.

.