Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer
cesarean incision that will bear
me no child and will never heal. All fear
rests right here (between hip and hip) right there
(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra
do I need to drive a knife through to keep
myself from feeling this way? Since vodka
only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep
without dreaming let me run fingernails
across my phantasmic slit; that which you
can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut
this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s
trail that not even the gods can undo.
A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.