once i swallowed a salmon, let it flop around in
my stomach and vomit stories of sailors
who fell in love with nymphs and monsters
that whispered into bunks, into beds and tickled 
secrets out of the first mate on every ship, made
them tie a rope in thick sailor knots around their necks
and dive into the ocean.

once i swallowed a rattlesnake and let it slither in
my intestines and it would have poisoned my veins
but i pulled out its fangs and ripped off it’s rattle 
before i dropped it down my throat and now,
i keep it all in a chain around my neck. sometimes the
snake will nudge up against my heart and wrap itself
around my lungs, licking my collarbone clean with a
forked tongue, but my bones are brittle with young age
and sometimes the porcelain will crack. 

once i swallowed a hummingbird, caged it 
in my ribs and only fed it half-digested
burgers and let it drink the bittersweet taste 
of regret that inhabited my saliva and my blood. 
the bird sang at nights and tried to fly 
away in the mornings, and it ended up cutting my insides up
with its razor wings but that’s what i wanted all along. 


once i swallowed my mama’s pills,
five of these, two of those, one of that,
straight down my throat and i don’t think
they’ve digested and killed me yet
only because they’re keeping my pets
company.