Jennifer Clarke

We share him
in fibres caught
on our clothes

& these identify us
as his executors


prophetic we
dreamt we
killed him

in cold blood.

I took his balls
for a trophy
& you said
you were Jack
right before
you ran him through
& unpacked
his chest
onto the pavement.

& we plucked
words from his mouth
easy as
cutting his tongue

& they declared
his divine
and set
his corpse

The prophet burned
& we both
caught fire.








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