You love all words that devour, O deceitful tongue.
—PSALMS 52:4
Rogue slab in the slaughterhouse of the mouth,
you love all words that whistle like bombs
through the delphinium sky. O tongue that sucks
honey from the vinegar bush—demagogue, street
preacher, cutpurse at the afternoon hanging—break
my neck a thousand times till I remember the digits
of your prime number. Drunk tongue, warling,
malt-mad forger in the bone orchard, give me
your traitor's code, so I can whistle my psalm
through the sinworm night. Tongue of rough
bread, blues tongue, wolf tongue. Kiss me,
deceitful mouth, smash my curtain of skin, devour
the air wild with bees, swallow their wings,
make me a bloody hive for their bitter queen.