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Alexander
the Great, Genghis Khan,
and all the little unknown assassins
who dunk their mouths into holy water
drunk and bobbing at the bottom for—
you know what—baby's
heads
not apples. I know a tree askew,
where children
dangle by those o
so slender umbilical cords feeding
light into
their heads. God if I were
only just blood, an animal governed
by appetite
and piss—I'd go back
to my hands around my own neck,
legs like
broken time pieces dangling
below that stem. I know a tree
where you
can snap a child off
by his head and bite into his skin
and lift the
shiny side after, lift it
way up over your head:
Here you go
God, you light
junkie, bite into this.
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