To me, the work’s consoling when they watch:
I tilt my head and thread the saber down
my throat until—from hilt to point—the shaft’s
delivered deep inside the pharynx, tight
within the gullet. Edging close, the crowd
regards my sternum, craving more: the live
and pendent-still taste of steel, the slit-eyed
devourer’s want, the sight of the blade
in darkness, pinned within the organs’ coil
of passageways and funnels. Art betrays
this need for intimate exchange; it thins
the line between us, freaks and patrons all.
Agape, I ventilate the void inside:
I body forth our wish to bypass flesh.