plucking out black pearls from where they've been entombed in honeycomb; thick, heavy eggs, big as grapes, called "the devil's caviar" by the sullen guano farmer here abouts. anesthetized thumbs at the studs on my neck, lightning catchers. lightning bat perches. every girl i walk past i imagine with a snaking scar up her belly, along her rib cage; her organs pulled out into a pile on the ground, replaced with clockwork, silk & sawdust hearts, rubber tubes hooked up to slick plastic. the stitches across their torsos dancing, sibilant. the haversack slung across my shoulders weighted with honey & eggs, bits of wax. at home it is hours & hours separating them into blue glass bottles, the casks of them left when the milk of magnesia company went under, filling each bottle with vinegar & milk. the girl's bodies sacks of flesh filled with sleeping cicadas, waiting the proscribed decade to hatch, to burst forth & cover the world in scuttling greens & golds. & it is just me & my refrigerator full of growing tadpoles to stand between them. when they hatch into a peacock-winged argos, i will, under cover of the War, come upon the corpses of marduk & mimir & add myself to make three.