Z. Like the Weegies say, “yoo’re feckin’ zed.”
Which is true. I am obnoxious, bratty.
All these chemicals. Havoc in my head.
Scrimshaw. Cuts. Cairn. Marker. What we bury
when we bury ourselves. This doesn’t work
well. You say that I’m better, like Delphi.
Visions that I don’t get. Let the gods smirk
when my name comes up. I shall have your thigh
around my hips, wrecking you. Even Pan
wept. For all my faults you let me bury
myself in you. No regrets. Just more praise.
Just. You are all. Just. We want a human
that we can call our own. And I, banshee,
death in the last name, wail: love born of haze.