DJ BENNETT

Eight Weeks

Graphed in images, locked 
in, a target. Hash marks
crop the chambers. Still 
the wand over flesh 
and more flesh. I do not
know yet if you are
whole. If the statistics
will favor you, me. 
You are no longer 
multiplying but adding, organ 
after organ. They pile up 
beneath soft costal 
cartilage. Shadow
world, image and sound,
blood lurks in gray 
quadrants. Nocturnal you 
shelter, nest of Russian dolls. 
Repeat, repeat, repeat.