Frankly, I want to know which of you bastards has a mouth

the right size to hold my fist as a gag within it.

Because the hand in question is small enough,

you’ll think you can bite down, but it’s just too snug

against my knuckles, the sick click of rings on teeth.

And is it so wrong that I think that those who picture my face

while hammering nails might also wonder what my fingers

taste like when they miss and must draw a bleeding thumb

through their lips? Because I know that every tongue

I’ve ever sucked lives within a face that my first impulse

was to rub in the dirt. In this scenario, you have to understand,

the dirt is good. It is sweet

and freshly turned and velvet and only smells wet.

It sticks richly to the cheek, and that very cheek is growing

pinker by the second, grateful to have been brought back down

to its first and final pillow, to be encouraged, simply, to rest.