I planned to be a tiger. Eleven feet nine inches.
Each day I hung from the rusted water pipe,
shoulders popped and tendons stretched, trying to get longer.
I licked ants straight off the tarmac, building a taste for blood.
They’re sour you know, like Warheads even,
and I had to clamp my tongue to the top of my mouth
and scrunch up my eyes and bring my head in real close.
Like a turtle seen a badger.
I remember that one belt.
The middle looked something like stucco
from when you leaned against the burner
and the cheap shitty plastic bubbled and popped.
I was keen on that one.
It hurt less than the genuine leather one from Montreal,
which left streaks against my rangy sides.
There’s violence to love. Mum carries pup by the scruff of his neck
and Toots left scratches all over my back and shoulders,
but it’s different see, she kissed my neck and eyelids.
