Be still! Your gods! They pulse in your midst!

Your nipples lurch in ambivalent mercy

Have you been hurt? Good!

I will help you, He won’t save you

My bosom has heaved with the weight of your organs

But what of my fluids? The bile in my sac?

The sheep eat the grass of your summer pits

Leaving divots in My world

I eat of it too, greedy;

To have it as mine

You weep without restraint

My wet, wet ventricles cannot contain yours