Friday, May 27, 2011

Surrender

On the night that you leave,
We hug.
I tug so hard
That my right arm,
Stronger than my thigh,
Severs at the shoulder.

The stump bleeds salt.
It remembers your name.

Your mother is watching,
Her back turned
Without acting a shroud.

I imagine she clenches a fist:
Her teeth.

The wound does
Not acknowledge itself. It is
A lady. It will not
Beg.

But, if you loosen your grip,
You will wreck me.
The blood will find itself
Difficult to plateau. To cake.
To remember its name.
It will try to drown
The tear-soaked carpet.
You will spend years
Hovering with mop bucket
And fine-toothed comb.
Without your mother.

One time,
Perhaps all at once
(I can not remember),
You set my arteries on fire.
You liked the sound of
My heart.
But you liked racing it more.
And you wanted to ignite my life,
Waterless.

You could have scabbed my forehead
With your careless first kiss.
Its teeth at the lip
Of regret's precipice.

You are not a box filled
With sanity.
You are just a boy
Empty of his years,
Reeking of righteousness.
In a way that can only come
From faking it.

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