I thread climbing vines through my metatarsals,
spearing center foot, push the rose needle’s
green eye, stitch skeleton, tie myself together,
crown of thorns haloing my skull in the sweet mud. 
They are horns, this is the fruit of my forked tongue.
I was sleeping viper, never gentle baby, always
not quite human. Something a little vicious,
something so very precious. Brain unfolding violence,
pink and fragrant, first bud open of the season.
See my regrowth from the conquest, sun-poisoned 
by your care. God generous and wholly vacant,
watch me wick the wind up as you stare.