That little elephant in the middle
at the root of my body
wants out. No more sex.
The red eagle of my stomach
won’t be coming back.
In their seventh instar
the caterpillars of my limbs
are hanging chrysalides from sticks
a long walk
from where they lived.
I can’t wait.
And the hornet of my heart
in my sampler zodiac
you knew would sting you
what else could it do
with the sword I carried
but guard the poison-honey
only you would crave?
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