The Book Writes an Ode to Dog-Earring

Zoey Birdsong

Mark my words,
literally. Don’t
be afraid to scratch
me out
, build
my guts into a corpse
of your own making.
I don’t mind, send
me a picture of your new
exquisite beast.
I’m an unfireable clay,
asking you to make me
a bowl, a goblet, a statue
of another idol. Smash me,
flatten me to a pulp
of sh  ard  lett ers.
Put me in your blender,
throw me at the wet face
of any bastard that ever called me
sacred. Don’t worry, clones of me
still sit forever chaste and untouched,
pricetagged and gathering dust on shelves.
Make me holed and holy.
Bend my spine back to wherever
it begins. Leave me maimed
and loved, leave me snuggled
among my fellow tired soldiers
where you can find me again.