i.

bear witness, accidentally, and lose your breath.

if you want to be an artist, lose mind & attention

too. much has been sacrificed to give birth 

to the moving thing before you. 

ii.

to birth your own — and you must be dying to do so

— stitch together a womb. gather your ingredients

which may include:

sinew, leather, guts

bones (finger, preferably, or rib)

feeling, breath, ghost

embryo — a liquid monarch of an undone man

thrashing fearfully, beholding me with its

fish-like eyes —

or meat of your choice

(note: poets often use “viscera” instead of “meat”)

iii.

with your sputtering flesh, make a morbid machine.

add more advanced components as required:

1) a chest cavity crammed with batteries; 

sparking, spitting lightning, like lifeblood 

from a beating heart

2) distended muscles for wiring and structure

3) your most formative and cherished memories;

your proudest thoughts; your unspoken opinions

then, gestate your fetus; add god, sex & blood to taste.

iv.

now you need a soul. give your child a name; write it

on the uterine lining & engrave its fingerprints there.

hold your breath as it’s pushed through a labyrinth of

meat &

thought &

blood &

wine &

voice &

spine &

tears &

brine &

sinew &

time &

guts &

rhyme; &

v.

when your child finally falls onto you from your machine,

like Cain fell onto Eve’s lap outside Paradise Lost,

dance & weep & count what you have sacrificed to birth it.

(warning: your child 

may not move. if so, 

negotiate with its flesh

until it moves in ways

you hoped it would

move you.)