Digestion

Belshazzar’s Feast (1820), John Martin

Oh, I know the chicken ends up in the fox
and her offspring in me.

I’ve seen the squirrel, hedgehog, cat
on the road.
The guts spill forth
like candy from a busted piñata.

The hippo swims in shit,
and the jaguar tears into the colon,
while the volcano decimates the village,
waiting for the ocean
to drown it all.

I cut into the marrow
of life
and find worms digesting
the earth
while monkeys bathe in blood
of their own kind.

I watch sunsets and smell roses
and light candles
to accentuate the dark.
But I’m hungry, so damn hungry.

My shadow on the ground
is licking at my skin.
When I’m still, I sense the tract
pulsating.

Oh, I know I’m in His belly,
dissolving into the digestive flow,
changing forms and going forward
by returning.

Mosquitoes drink the savior’s blood,
and maggots feast upon his flesh.
The more I eat,
the more I’m eaten.

The kingdom is a meaty one,
decorated with mossy bones
and bony branches,
and a bloodshot sky
with cotton candy,
always just before the night.

Long and sticky tongues catch
fireflies and stars.

My stomach growls —
that’s my home.

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