by Nick Gisburne
They squeeze, too tight, three black, organic rings,
Attached, as I was sleeping, to a hand.
The substance seeping from their circles stings,
But, as it stains my skin, I understand.
The sacrifice I give will save the Earth.
The parasites inside me all agree,
And, though my brain will not survive their birth,
My flesh will feed and incubate the three.
Repulsed, I renegotiate the deal.
It’s not that I am squeamish, or a prude,
But knowing I’m an oven-ready meal
Is shitting on my sunshine, to be crude.
Evicted from my body by a blade,
The rings, rejected, bugger off, betrayed.
