You had to die for me to know
the layers wormed within your bones—children
are born narcissists, open mouths
and puckered fists. We command
with animal mewls, gifted dripping
nipples appear like offerings, a sacrifice
that wrings you clean

empty. For years
I sliced away (a martyr
must have scars). I want,
I want, I want and still …

you with nothing left, I ask
for more. The knowing
that you’d saw yourself to pieces,
give away the last dregs
of your endocardium
was sweeter than any colostrum
and cost more riches than I’ll ever know.