Mike McCune

Inner Critic

It slithered from my mother’s mouth,
slunk down the slats of my crib
crawled in while I slept.

My body grew up around it
stunted like rickets, all twisted.
It sucked the air of my lungs

its helium voice a high whine,
an ambulance screaming, redly.
A lipless lamprey with waxen incisors

it loosens my guts and cuts
the anxious grease from my spleen.
It wears my rib cage for a bowler

At midnight, dances soft-shoe
in my stomach, sloshing fear
like spilled beer. To evict it,

I’d have to drive the knife in.
Doesn’t seem worth it, so I nurse it
on the doubt of my blood.

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