iron – naomi garceau

iron makes like rust-brown
streaking down my arm
my oil dripping
flaming pools on the floor
what kind of passion
is so destructive
that it grows teeth and hair,
a teratoma,
benign in its expression of love?

what wet fetus eats our lust
and makes resentment scars
that no stitch could have helped?

secure in our faltering
we stumble towards a forever tomorrow
making secret plans
to change the world
leaving behind our world
in the pregnancy
of a void