let us set the scene
the kitchen
sitting on the counter
at a plate
of nuts and dates
into the late
of evening
yes, i’m sitting here
and thus, i near
to melancholy
just an inch
the distance ‘tween
my thigh, the sink
it’s filling
with the sorry sap
and soaking
my own sorry lap
i think the words
i sound them out
my lips retract
the lower pouts
i cannot wait
or so it seems
i fumble
for the spewing ream
the answer
oh, the sacred list
of who we’ve touched
and who we’ve kissed
and maybe who
we’ve stolen
who we’ve marked
and who we’ve broken

i am bored
and yearn
for stolid ways
to be the warrior
i crave
her helmet, sword
her swinging fists
that seem to fly
from cotton wrists
i saw you
i’ve forgotten how
or where, or why
i’d want that. now
i’m sitting on
a crooked seat
i think my father
cracked the leg
i know i love
his knowing head
though little foggy
and mislead
and yes, there are
some angry bees
that fill his bonnet
(so like me)
they dart for minds
both malleable
and naive
or entangled
and the words
they slip out
in a hiss
“i should have turned
from one man’s kiss!”
oh listen!
to those foolish words
just rubble
for the wild birds
the matter for
a little home
a pound of debris,
mashed and combed
for something
other than the drone
of bees, they come
they prick your skin
they prick you, put
that pricker in
you cry!
you curse!
you hold the wound
red in the face,
the heart is blue
for all the little ones
who felt this pricker
even more

i hear my cats
they’re eating scraps
the crockery alive
with taps
i think the words!
i needn’t say
they’re bolder
when arranged that way

oh mother!
how i love that heart
i’d squash into my own
and pray the bloods
would unite, flood
my tired, sloppy bones
you are the worry wart
i know
(so alike to me)
but i see the warrior!
i know you cannot see
i saw the sword
beneath your sheets
the battle scars
along your feet
i saw you
in your marriage bed
hot tears that filled
the sweetest head
the loss, the fear
my spine it arcs
in preparation
for a thump
a blow
to anyone who dares
to touch you
or desert you, care
i not
for chance of prison
loss of freedom
in my vision
i would fight
the most bewitching boy
to save your beating
heart from toying
and their deviance
the cunning
and malevolence
it makes me beat
my weary head
to even contemplate
such dread

i return to my
filling plate
and recall dislike
for these dates!
i fling them to
the wooden floor
and sweep them
to the little door
wash my hands
dissolve that sin
dissolve that little
pricker pin

and let us close the scene
right here
for where we start
we disappear.