My slippery virgin heart is ripe,
ta-tumming in the circular gape
I carve. Up to elbow in tripe,
I grip my guts’ tentacles, bare-
handed, wrestle them from a mire
of the living, wavy hairs
that stick to my sides. In tears, I plumb
deeper, desperate to thumb
out the bleating organ (that damn
ta-tumming!), set it on a platter
surrounded by the seeds of cancer
a burlesque of eggs, boiled and bitter.
As the white of the worm
that eats through my sternum.
How empty the body’s become.
How hollowed by a flame.
I worship the flicker that lights the shame.
Hallowed be your name.
There is no heart in a pumpkin-
shaped boy who eats out his in-
sides only to suck on his sin.
Click here to read Christopher's first draft of "Autopsy"