Like snow – both flake and fall – my self 
comes down to sleep, taking shapes 
from the ground that waits below.
Mutilations. A slow ragged 
severing of my testicles
with cold water and blows
hurled into my face to keep me conscious.
First the right, then the left
eyeball sucked from the socket
(my head clamped in a vise)
until each dangles from its strong|
optic nerve, then the strings are wrapped
around two fingers and wetly plucked
from my brain. 
Forgive me, my love,
for telling you. Forgive me, but
you lie beside me in the dark.
Here in the borderland, disassembled,
accumulating, my body
has fallen into the torturer's hands,
and I can descend no further. Two friends
died last year, conformed themselves
to the waiting ground. Forgive me
if I writhe and kick and hiss breath
into my lungs, and force myself to try
to cross the only other border,
clutching your hand and whispering,
Wake up.

© 2017 J. Morris