Just the Usual Red Eyed Nativity

There are stretch marks for every delivered line. Skin keeps strumming until it runs out of sweat, incipient and membranous they arrive through a mutual tension. On their own words in the woods unseen, but when pushed through a primal viscera, they slip through wet and new. You try to make them civilized and grown. you know that eyes are upon you. Birthing’s a messy affair something you do behind swollen eyes, a stress disorder that defies latex or the collective humming of incubators. Then you look down and everyone’s looking it’s not a poem, it is a configuration of arrhythmic pulses, meanwhile you swaddle an indigenous form native to a ‘no man’s land.’ You hope someone will read it to the end, but it’s not the end, it’s another beginning.