Homunculus Survival
            I. 
  
These days, the hurricanes reeve 
through skylines so fast. The roofs collapse 
           over our wet heads. Saguaros 
  
           peck at pterodactyl clouds. 
We are twins. Students of mutiny. We insist 
           on safety, even if we have, 
                        contain nothing. 
  
  
            II. 
  
Let’s build an aegis 
          out of rocks. Let’s knit a coat 
          out of clouds. Let’s planish armor 
out of the house that failed 
          to protect our ugly frames. 
  
  
            III. 
  
Pariah hour. We eat the food  
no one wanted: 
            beachcomber fodder, skeletal meals  
that slowly dissemble, escargot shells 
            and oxtail marrow. The raw pulps  
taste staccato. They stink under teeth,  
            tongue-snipers. 
  
  
            IV. 
  
Dirty with unguents and easy to bait: 
this is how we are portrayed 
on the radio. Once, a man asked if 
  
he could touch my hair. Is it true  
there are magical oils on these strands? 
  
He took me to his house that night.  
He wouldn’t tell me why; claimed he was sick, 
claimed he needed healing. 
  
Wouldn’t let me sleep on his bed.  
A soggy mesh of genitals 
desensitizing the lamplight, quietly.  
  
  
            V. 
  
As if all kind moments were hoaxes: 
            this is how we live.  
  
Blame it on our memories. The husks 
            of sand creatures moving in streams 
where fish survive crystallized. 
  
            Inside tree trunks, we gambled all our rot 
and lost everything. Pity is a cheap emotion,  
  
            and all roads lead to ditches. Hitchhikers 
eat cobwebs in darkness, 
            resuscitating the roadkill. 
  
  
            VI. 
  
Above the singing sand dunes, 
we saw a woman give birth. 
Creature made of needles, 
  
clotted flesh, manic seed, 
who is the baby squirming  
                       in vernix?           
  
                      Our brother. 
The trees in the distance  
appear bridled as brides,  
their yellow trance wounding  
  
the cosmos. Origin of no  
returns: orphaned, 
water crawls back into the womb. 
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