Fate speaks in metaphors and whimpers,
her tongue, a maggot in rotten guts.

Once I saw a dead kitten breathe.
It was a collective squirm and heave
of a mass of maggots, glutting
eating septic puss-mess of feline flesh
roasted slow for weeks in the sun oven,
so tender it melts in your mouth and dissolves
before you can even lip the name
of the dish on which you chew.

Sphinx, riddle me this:
why, with every fall and swell,
so deep the thrusts, can't I feel
that same love worm inside of me?


**The Spin Cycle**