the dead man's float

Hi good night l just want to know when are you updated your story. 

My Brother My Wound
          BY NATALIE DIAZ
          He was calling in the bulls from the street.
          They came like a dark river — 
          a blur of chest and hoof — 
          everything moving, under, splinter — hooked
          their horns through the walls. Light hummed
          the holes like yellow jackets. My mouth
          was a nest torn empty.
          
          Then, he was at the table.
          Then, in the pig’s jaws — 
          he was not hungry. He was stop.
          He was bad apple. He was choking.
          
          So I punched my fists against his stomach.
          Mars flew out
          and broke open or bloomed — 
          how many small red eyes shut in that husk?
          
          He said, Look. Look. And they did.
          
          He said, Lift up your shirt. And I did.
          
          He slid his fork beneath my ribs — 
          Yes, he sang. A Jesus side wound.
          It wouldn’t stop bleeding.
          He reached inside
          and turned on the lamp — 
          
          I never knew I was also a lamp — until the light
          fell out of me, dripped down my thigh, flew up in me,
          caught in my throat like a canary.
          Canaries really means dogs, he said.
          
          He put on his shoes.
          You started this with your mouth, he pointed.
          Where are you going? I asked.
          To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered,
          and climbed inside me like a window.