maenadAnd I choke back slave’s words
On my thick lips like honey from the bee’s comb

And I rut in dust and spittle
Little black girls in purposeful rags
Singing hymns to a god they don’t know

And I dance on soft glass
with edges made for shaving heads and cutting lines

A  chance for fortune left behind

in pools of old malt liquor

And I gather them up
into a bundle of faggots
and burn them all as offering

Drinking ash and salvation
in flavors reminiscent of semen.