One has to reconstruct the bomb
beginning in fiction and ending in
bomb, in sifting through fragment
and blast burn and the reluctance
of separated flesh your discovery
that bomb can be all things waked
a ton of pickled shit for nitrogen
a crate of bullets reluctantly open
to use as bomb a mason jar a clay
shot with nails then shot through
the reluctant body of yours. It’s
happening. We’re ready to know.
In the mind the wounds reverse,
erupt the jag metal becoming smooth
and fixed in the whole innocent body
of the bomb, the wounds repair.

____

I have a feeling this poem was partially affected by repeatedly
hearing "Someone set us up the bomb." [link]