The geography of this place is entirely different from Gaza. It is more like a handgun in the arms of a nurse, Or a moon the faint color of crimson. It throws a pale light Bubbling out of my spine Like water from the hot Atlantic, sulphorous and cruel. This is a place of white bone and cruelty. A slick heat, wetter than Gaza With matching weapons of metal growing from my nurse. She treats me like old plaster, cracks my spine And wades in inches of rotten crimson. If there is any sort of light, It is the stony, green light Of a wet heart. When I was cruel I kicked you down the stairs 'til you were crimson, Made you fly right off to Gaza, Without so much as a shivering spine. I gave no feline thought to nursing. A body full of cavities cannot nurse, Can only get a slithering dark out of light. I broke three inches of your spine With a toe the size of a tusk, hooked like a cruel Bird. They stuffed you in a crate, packed you off to Gaza, Where you saved your breath until the air was crimson. Your organs are quite crimson. They were stuffed by that gaunt, green-skinned nurse With a kind quivering jelly only available in verdant Gaza. They are shaking cables of light, Channels through the spine That take you, and mouth you, like a mother of cruelty. They don't know the pith of my cruelty Or the pulpy mess of crimson I dropped on your steps. The gray spine Of a damp book or the watery dress of a nurse. Your arms look the same on the stairs in the light; But they are cast in iron, coming madly back from Gaza. In the light, they are two dead spines. The crimson water-mark, the cruel Nurse who cut the cable, running back from Gaza.