Trembling for that bitter sweet liquor I have grown used to

Joy, sir, is the word for it, as the fantoms never fail

to provide, the realms of admonished benevolence

where my entrance is no longer allowed, where my mind

dwells in erratic rambles. How could you know it?

What do you think you are to kiss me with this solid embrace,

to caress my hair with imperfect words, to be illuminated

by this unmerciful sun and, yet, to stand tall beneath it?

What do you know about all that pierced me, penetrated me

tattooed my skin with lust, revulsion, boredom, vanity

the frivolity of bodies and of hope? It is Turkey Season

again I am being gutted by my own skilled fingers

to be stuffed, roasted, decorated and served for dinner.