This Is Not a Gentle Poem
The larynx, pinched pliers. The mouth a purple feather.
A circle of mushrooms, the heart; smashed glass, the smile, littered
along chainlink. You catalogue the world this way; that is to say,
the man you learned to unlove taught you yourself, a new blazon:
ankles as handlebars, the face a plate to lick clean. Breasts
uncompromising as bruises. Do you regret the breath you lost
here, the frantic skin on carpet? Look to your hand become a gun.
Run away on two rusted nails and listen to the concrete cry out beneath you.