Oil up your machete, Baby; Tonight, we are cutting jackfruit,
and the latex in its rag casing can stick.
I’d say I’d like a little bit of slip to each of your blades,
but that would just be flirting.

Later when the work is done, let me crawl into your belly,
past your bony throat; Consumption is the only way
I ‘d trust you to hold me. I’ll whisper seed bloom
under spiked rind, a secret for bats to eat and shit.
What grows is cross-pollinated,
DNA rewriting itself on layers of ghosts.

Maybe you are right about the car.
Or maybe the humidity wavered in the air, turned it gold.

We fuel up and say our goodbyes to the Exxon,
each gas pump a sepulcher for reptilian teeth
turned under until they are black. People bury things
all the time, like this, waiting for them to turn slick.

Hurtling down the road, we each pledge
under our breath to tell this exactly
as we please.