I’ve bloodied the corpse of anger
in three ways, ways only I knew
of, a hurt or an insult, never
a piece from me, thrice-sharpened
sinewy, a mess. But you
turn and say, “What of
the ways I have sown?”
Despite everything, even now after
snaps onto your wrist, a rubber
band that’s pulled too taut.
–
Think: no, really, think
Sharply intuit the thin
slices, cut by cut. In
morality the trimmings
fall and sag, loose
febrile tissue show
the inedible mark of closeness.