My nerves the orchestra none hear.

Freeways of fire make me try to gnaw

hands to paste. The kitchen burn that melts

and cooks my skin till juice beads

along my arm is nothing. Skin sizzles,

I don’t feel it. I feel only talons

that rake my ribs, the butterflies

beating between my shoulder blades,

the bouquet of teeth blossoming

beneath my hips. My body its killer

and hostage, but the doctor asks:

“Are you sure it’s not stress? Have

you tried meditation?” Have you tried

tugging on your brainstem like a weed?

You must grab it at the base, to ensure

the roots come with. I long to rip free

what slithers through the earth of my body.

When young, I dreamed of plants

that grow inside your skin. They’d sprout

shining lye hairs on my arms,

and I’d pick and pull it up, out and out,

until wet, bloody fibers of porcelain

were wrapped in my hand, tugging

on a snagged knot. Ripping it free

like a barbed arrow, one bloody bulbous root

leaving weeping red craters across me,

until I simply submitted to carrying

these growths. Now I wonder

if my body whispered warnings

of what grew till hatching. Now hatching

like botflies that chew constellations in me.