losing yo shit is not
prolonged fasting or
a djinn that empties your belly
before your waking thought
pops like corn soaked in kerosene.

no rage is as blinding as
the one that shows you
a beautiful future
whose bottom is the hips
that birth you.

arms dangling from
prison cells don't
bend from gravity
or depravity;
they want to rub their belly
from the outside,
as if it weren't their's.
"come rub my belly", they say,
those lips attached
to those bowed arms,
"and let me show you a djinn."
It doesn't grant wishes;
but all your thoughts.

the belly is cloisonné-d
with veins. There's a story
in one partition,
a painting, a prayer, a parable,
and, on the bottom,
buffalo leeches
that scribble the read:
"Do not feed when hungry."