My mouth gnaws at your bloated
throat, clogged with plastic
straws and drawn-out footnotes.

This sagging jaw, broken by sorry
lovers, wags like a shredded red
flag. If I’m ranting nonsense,

I’m fed up. Lord, please remove
this cup. Inhale this smothering
fog with angelic chants. Release

the panting pups clawing
at your flawed law, jumping
at your heels. What must it be

like to fail at such an immense
scale? In a sense, I’ve been
fleeced—planted in lore for such

a time as now. Kindly publish
these words as my necrologue:
She’s the mother of dogs.

Tag it as explicit. Print with
outdated black and white pictures
paired with the caption:

vindictive whore. The whole
notice labeled cryptic. The paper
will charge an arm and a leg—

give them mine as payment
for my bones are sweet. The meat
so tender it makes one weep.

– Cat Dixon