Audio: Read by the author.

soundless, it crosses a line, quiets into a seed

then whatever makes a seed. almost like gone

but not gone. the air kept its shape. not antimatter

but the memory of matter. or of it mattering. it doesn’t

cross my mind now that it whispers so soft it’s almost

silence. but it’s not. someone dragged the screaming boy

so deep into the woods he sounds like the trees now.

gone enough. almost never here. daily, swallowed

within a certain window, a pale-green trail on the tongue

the pale-green pill makes before it’s divvied among

the ghettos of blood, dissolves absolves

my scarlet brand. ritual proof. surely science

witchcraft have the same face. my mother

praises god for this surely it is his face too.

regimen, you are my miracle. this swallowing

my muscular cult. i am not faithful to much.

i am less a genius of worship than i let on.

but the pill, emerald dialect singing the malady

away. not away. far enough. for now.

i am the most important species in my body.

but one dead boy makes the whole forest

a grave. he’s in there, in me, in the middle

of all that green. you probably thought

he was fruit.