Silence is safer than speech
The first error of your crime was centred on an incident.
A midnight boxing match with the dead.
That sense of late night urgency
rumbling like an salient mandate.
Beating fists and bouncing off ropes and a body slam into the corner –
an iambic pull where we squeeze into ourselves
like a rat easing into the jaw of a snake –
a deep swallow of sound and macerating flesh.
We are empty membranes, so there is no pushing through.
Instead, interstices and odd aperture;
water in a piano,
a refugee in transit,
a broken husband sitting on the back steps,
weeping with jagged breaths –
secretions hanging from his nose, dripping down to his mouth.
For him, the fight is over –
the intent vamoose had it ever began.