Andrew Kozma

THE DEATH IN ME SPEAKS

My voice clotted with its gutturals. Its manifesto
written on the inside of my ribcage, traceable
with a fingertip. On this day I thee wed.

Its name coughs its way up my throat.
The skin of my nostrils sloughs off, and spit,
that ever-present genetic marker, jewels

the center of the parquet floor. This is hope,
to continue littering the world with my body.
This is the ticking clock sans hands, sans merci.

They used to burn the beds and the bedding, but now
a wash in bleach. We all must sleep somewhere,
after all, in sickness or in health, in ashes

or beneath the dirt.