Laughter from someone else’s good time climbs my window,
collapsing neater than a bridge of shuffling cards.

Back then I was a doe staring down the chasm of a gun
while waves of doubt broke on sharp edges in my mind.

Now I know only an Anubis could call me Ammut,
feed bleeding hearts to the demon daughter of Isis.

Parts of you still infect slices,
(the punch lines of jokes and insides of pens),
but you couldn’t poison every bite of the apple.