You made it worse than it had to be,
a fist against my lip and a darkness
in my eye. I wondered where the bloom
was born and you showed me,
swish and flick, it was like you’d never
touched me.
But there’s a woman in the corner
whose eyes see a little further
and your hands can’t cover the blind.
You’ll cut out her tongue and leave it,
carrion bent, watching as her weeping
tears fall.
And the air is silence now, though I don’t know
where you breathe, there’s mist on the window
that’s a print of your life waiting to be
smudged against the pain. But I don’t know
how the glass is breaking, blood on the tips
and ice in the veins.
The sun is hot against your nape
and you’re watching for the blade
between your shoulders like it’s a bird of prey.
She’s still watching and I’m still listening,
though a covering of dust that hurts
the throat kisses our cheeks.
You’ll finish with a sigh, expelling the
expression, and we’ll be covered.
So don’t go and fret,
you fixed it.
