Primordial Hymn

- after "Pilot Verse" by Matt W. Miller

Now to write a book of birth,
eighty pages edged in gold.

Now to crack back the ribs
to peer inside fresh lungs.

Now to scrape the cavities
full of meat and metal ends.

Now to spit into open hands
thronging the empty flames.

Now to let loose the wails
waiting deep in my throat.

...
Published in Roadrunner Review