To Offer Up the Rib
Heather Napualani Hodges

A plot to alter:
the thing that walks its way across you.

A complex structure, this:
a greenhouse of mewing carnivorous plants,
broken at their scruffs.

The singular object, miles out, becoming a pluralism of parts, a thousand ribs.

You did not come from it,
but you are made of garden, it's true.


And then,
to make nothing.

The offer dead on your lips.

The completed removal not entirely necessary.

To know that the scraping of it was sacrifice enough.


The complaint, the admission, the heightened voice, the variant temperature.

What each creature is from far away:

a collection of all the above.