Auto-Sacrifice Poem by Linda Hepner

The auto-sacrifice of B'ak T'ul
is no one's tragedy except the wives
of those he had consumed like morning gruel
to triumph over. Rivals, but with knives
sharpened on their throats, they wait out years
until B'ak T'ul the mighty king
humbles himself, mourned only with the tears
of many second wives who, drunken sing:

Oh climb up to the altar, snake-snared god,
and let your blood flow from your bladed wrist,
so that your long-dead rivals pour to sod
like sperm to corn,
your sacrificial twist.