Ouroboros
Happiness is a sick old thing—
not the chemical response of the body,
.
but the way I hunger for it, lost
in my own madness like a dog
.
chasing its tail, like a galaxy wound
around its dark center, like the snake
.
eating itself. Even birth is not safe
from hunger: a friend still grieves
.
having consumed a twin in the womb.
Everywhere I see blood, I am fighting
.
to keep my hands clean of it.
I wash them daily. I haven’t eaten an animal
.
in seven years. I purify myself
in ceremony, bathe in refracted
.
quartz light, build a fortress of houseplants.
Birth may be the ultimate form
.
of consumption—yet who among us
hasn’t wished for more? And then wished it
.
all away? There are many things
my mouth has touched and longs to touch:
.
hot sand and the humid night air
dense against the ice-cold glass in summer.
.
Lately, I want to touch time, pack it on my bones
like muscle or fat. I could wait here, I swear,
.
and watch the whole universe eat itself sick.