What happens to the cunt when 
the stomach corrodes 

through nights 
spent cramped 

in fetal position?                     
It becomes a will, equipped

with its own rhetorical questions. 
If I bleed this fever         

all the way out, do I get time 
to myself? If I am in fact 

a lucky little lady 
in a city of light, are moth wings 

less of a death threat, folded 
in two? Heaven forbid 

my mercury gives me away,
that mangy meniscus—I can’t 

forbid anything. I barely
regulate my body

temperature. But what do I know?
I just got into town about an hour ago.