my last memory of Itamar Ben-Gvir

dying along the sewage cafe
where Itamar Ben-Gvir
is stepping on my throat

whispering, “Marissa Nadler
is never coming to save you!”
like the roast of a demon
in front of an audience of three

where rag dolls send the greater whale
for homilies against memories,

keep them from spreading to others
no single thought must survive
in the mind of another as testimony

he laughs at my charred remains
my headphones beside me
while he eats grilled whale
my mind silent from strangers

a blue morning spear-point
razzles miles from sailcloth