Self Portrait of an Open Wound

Black and White image of grapefruits and pomegranates

I am confused and drinking 

from bowls of soapy water, 

pink and swollen as a fetus. 

Unable to remember 

how I’ve arrived, at night 

I get drunk, vodka 

on the shore, searching 

for paradise in any crevice

I can find, even the black

and coiled. Someone 

is playing the violin 

inside of me, its wooden 

frame shaped like the body 

of an arachnid,

each high-pitched sound 

biting me; how romantic 

it is to have a lover peering

into my pit, eyes hanging 

like two slices of wet fruit, 

witnessing the strike.