Latvian Pangram

O heart of no hemo-
globin
gone red to pink
-pale to
bilirubin, the formaldehydes of the medical
are museuming your bile
-swallow
in jars. Looks like you fell into that tankard
of pig fetal, that the dust of
boutonnieres
on the mortician’s lapel
really is
legional. Their button-holes are French, are
oblate, will
receive decapitated babies
breath, the spores of
filtrate. O
lethal
I’m on knees, the carnations are
dead, lay me
out
like a slut
and place a cherry south—I want to feel knot,
be undone
by a hem. If only I had my hymen
back, if only the lone
viscera were a badge I
could
peel off in
tact
I could eat
glass, and it wouldn’t hurt me, I could necrophile
the emote, perforate the crisp-
white quiet
with a single bloom to
the lab-coat.