[a flower, a novice, and an infiltrate]
a flower, a novice, and an infiltrate, I’ll die not like a princess but a spy, behind a spray of camellias or ordnance. I’m an asp in the bunker, a rogue contractor, I cause disorder in the decimals and quotients. Like a star, I gutter and divide in the knocked-up galaxy’s gut, I flap my fetal gills and fail to thrive. As epigenetic code remembers trauma, as etymology carts the lode of empire in its wake, as an epicenic hustler hides an apple in his throat, you bear my trace. When I shot you point-blank, you wore the mark of my Taclite. And when I hung you from the bridge, alight, your limbs contracted in the attitude of flight.