I want to be seven feet tall, walk out of the Gabon bush,
speaking Fang, to gaze into the sky and see
an overturned bowl of godless blue, a wild storm
in the heart of the devil, a rocky sea of scudding,
poisoned boats. I want to look into the dark canopy
of trees and hear the mother of all talking creatures,
fluttering mountains, a green sea swimming with fish that fly.
I need Fang for revenge—fire smoldering
in the heart, a quick knife, a sickness
that fells grown men in the midday sun. I want words
like teeth that could tear the flesh
from the throat of my worst enemy—her face
staring at me from every mirror. Every morning
my voice is a bird flying over treetops,
dropping berries bitter and sweet
into mouths open and closed. I can hardly bear
the sun on my skin. O Fang, come to me as a suitor
with two goats and an orchard of pomegranates, woo me
with your straight back, take me deep
into the night when stars fall like faithless lovers
on the black trees. I need the mouth of a viper,
a vampire, a mad dog pulling children
from their mothers’ arms. I want my heart to swell
like a wide brown river carrying trees, huts, limbs
to the flood-maddened sea. O Fang,
heart of a snake, body of impenetrable water,
dark continent of betel nut and monkeypod,
erupt from my tongue, give me a world I cannot give myself.