by Trevor Ketner


I was born, as expected,

a boy with desires.


In the city something melted—

in the body someone died,

so I ate him—


he tasted like sand, warm, and the Lord

loved him more

for what made him holy,


so I killed

him and the ground

cried blood.

Poor ghost tied forever

to the bone post he cut himself from,


boiled down to a single desire: to be like

the negative of a photo of fire, to be quenched.